Swim For Shore
by BlowTheCandlesOut
Summary: Our plane crashed. Do you know what the chances of that are? Our chances of surviving that crash? Of being stranded and not being found? There are a million statistics out there about it; I don't know if the numbers are completely accurate and I don't care because it's not the part that matters. What matters is that they all tell me the same thing—you and me? We're statistical anom
1. Chapter 1

"Buy him a drink."

"He's already got a drink."

"Then buy yourself another drink, grow some balls, and go talk to him."

"It's an airplane—what am I going to do, flirt while people try to shove past me to get to the bathroom?"

"You'd do the same thing in a bar. Screw it, _I'm_ buying you another drink."

"Cooper."

"Blaine. This is happening." Cooper leans over Blaine; digs an elbow into his arm to snap his fingers, "Excuse me, stewardess? A moment of your time?"

"Get off my arm," Blaine tears his arm away and shoves Cooper back into his seat, "And don't snap at her. She's a person, not a dog."

"See? Turn on that charm and he'll be putty in your hands," Cooper turns his smile up a notch and looks up to the stewardess who's reached their seats, "Sorry for the snapping ma'am, but this is an urgent issue."

She smiles back, clearly charmed already, "Oh? How can I help you?"

"My brother here," Cooper takes the opportunity to prod a finger between Blaine's ribs, "is in desperate need of another drink. Gin and tonic if you've got it."

Her smile turns apologetic, "I'm not sure if we have beverage services going just now, but I can certainly check."

Cooper's smile, to Blaine's total befuddlement and irritation, seems to shine even brighter, "What's your name?"

She looks surprised, "Me?"

Cooper nods, gaze fixed on her face.

She blushes a little in response, "I'm Sandra."

"Sandra. That's beautiful." Cooper tilts his head, "Thank you for being such a great help to me and my brother, Sandra."

"I'll be back in just a moment. Do you need anything else?" She's stumbling backwards already.

"Actually now that you mention it, a pack of those little cookie things?" Cooper winks, "If it's not too much trouble."

"None at all!"

Blaine watches her go, shakes his head, "You're an idiot."

"What? I like those cookies!"

"I'm not talking about the cookies." Blaine sinks into his seat. "I'm talking about your inability to make it even an hour without flirting with someone."

"I was being polite!" Cooper insists. He lifts a hand and scrubs it through Blaine's hair, "And don't tell me you don't turn on the Anderson charm whenever you need something done."

Blaine slaps his hand away, "Get that out of my hair."

Cooper holds both hands up, palms out, in surrender, "Jesus, you sure are mean. Especially considering who bought your early ticket home, little brother."

Blaine sighs, deflates, "I know. I'm sorry…thank you for that."

Cooper's smile turns softer, "You don't have to keep saying thank you."

"Well then, I'm sorry," Blaine stares at the back of the seat in front of him, suddenly tired, "Really, I am."

"You should be saying sorry even less than you should be saying thank you," Cooper stares at him for a moment before smiling again and nudging Blaine with an elbow, "Come on, screw Dad. You're gonna have your drink, maybe eat a cookie if I feel like sharing, then you're gonna cheer the hell up and go flirt with that guy you've been ogling since security."

"I haven't been ogling." Blaine mutters. "And I didn't notice him until we were at our gate."

The stewardess returns with the drink, not one, but two cellophane wrapped packages of cookies, and a smile that might split her face in two, "Look what I rounded up."

Cooper is stretched out into Blaine's space again to take the cookies and give Sandra's arm a squeeze, "You're an angel, Sofie."

Her smile falters just a little, "…Sandra."

"Right! Right! Sandra," Cooper nods, and, as an extra insurance measure, winks, "I won't forget again. I promise."

Sandra-not-Sofie floats away on another cloud.

Blaine gives Cooper a look.

"Don't be jealous. You don't even like girls." Cooper tears open a packet of cookies and starts munching happily.

"She's older than both of us."

"Nothing wrong with a woman with some experience points." Cooper motions his cookie packet toward the aisle, "Now's your chance, squirt, he put away his headphones."

Blaine swallows dryly, "I—no, I can't."

"Why not?"

"This flight has been nothing but bad turbulence, I'll be falling all over the place."

"That's the dumbest excuse I've ever heard."

"I just… I can't."

"You can't or you won't?"

"Both."

"Blaine, come on!" Cooper wipes the crumbs from his hands. "You're giving the name Anderson a bad reputation with your foot dragging."

"There's millions of Andersons, our last name isn't that unique so I hardly think I'm sullying it."

Cooper pauses, brow knit in confusion, "Isn't—"

"Yes, Sully is a Disney movie monster," Blaine sighs, "Sullying means to ruin or mess up or dirty something. Two different things."

Cooper nods, keeps talking, "The point is, you have absolutely no excuse for being a wallpaper—"

"—Wallflower—"

"—When it comes to dudes! You're talented, you're decent looking—a little tiny maybe, but some people are pretty into that—and you had me to teach you every trick in the book on how to melt someone in your hands."

"Cooper, this isn't the place for trying to flirt with someone," Blaine tips his cup from side to side; listens to the ice shift inside, "and it definitely doesn't feel like the time."

"You really gonna let him run your life right now?" Cooper's smile is gone, "From like a million feet off the ground and after how we left things? He doesn't own you, B."

"It's not that simple." Blaine stares down into his cup; takes a small sip.

Cooper's quiet for a moment; gaze still intent on Blaine's profile, "What if it is?"

Blaine takes another drink, glances toward Cooper, "Maybe I'm just not the type to randomly hit on the cute guy who happens to be on my flight."

"Just…surprise yourself, B," Cooper insists nudging the drink in Blaine's hand closer to his mouth, "You owe it to yourself from time to time."

Blaine keeps his eyes on the boy—_man_, they're grown, he shouldn't refer to himself or anyone else his age as a boy—tries to swallow down the sudden butterflies with the evergreen flavor of his drink.

"Does this mean what I hope it means?" Cooper's expression is lit up; hopeful.

"Not making any promises."

Cooper beams when Blaine unbuckles his seatbelt, "That's my boy."

Blaine pushes himself to his feet, swallows dryly and kind of wishes he had one more drink. He pulls at the hem of his shirt; shakes out his shoulders and the stiffness in his legs.

"Go get 'em, tiger," Cooper reaches out and gives Blaine's butt a good-natured poke.

Blaine twists around to glare, "Would you cut that out? People are going to think we're a couple or something."

"I'm way out of your league, buddy," Cooper talks around a mouthful of cookie, "Stop stalling and get out of here."

Blaine turns forward again, takes a tentative step into the aisle and keeps his eyes on the back of that pretty head of hair.

He takes another few steps forward before he has to step awkwardly out of the way for a little girl half-running down the aisle and flatten himself to the side of a seat. He flashes an apologetic smile to the woman he's nearly sitting on top of.

She glares back, clearly irritated.

"Sorry." He mumbles.

"Uh huh." She looks back to her magazine; flicks to a new page with a pretty, manicured finger.

He contemplates apologizing again, somehow flustered by this stranger and her irritation, but he thinks better of it. He's two seats behind his mystery man, and he suddenly realizes he has no idea what to say.

_Hi, I noticed you in the airport. I don't know if you're single or even into men, but I think you're really cute._

_Hi, I'm Blaine. Can I buy you a drink when beverage services are running?_

_Hey, do we know each other from somewhere? No? Oh._

He nearly groans out loud.

"As fun as it is getting to stare at your ass three inches from my face, buddy, the aisle's clear, so feel free to get going."

He nearly jumps at the sound of the voice beside him. The girl is glaring again.

"I'm sorry, really, I just—" He looks at her again, feeling the beginning of a blush starting in his cheeks when he notices her eyes—red, sad. She's been crying. He feels some strange sense of empathy for this sad, pretty woman on the plane, "I'm sorry."

For a second her glare seems to melt a little, her disposition a little confused by the sudden sympathy in Blaine's voice, but then she's glowering with even more ferocity, "Sorry implies you're going to stop doing what you're doing. So either you move it or me and one of my stilettos will help you get moving."

"Santana, play nice."

Blaine is fairly certain he pulls something in his neck when he whips his head around to look forward.

It's the guy—the one with the eyes and the hair and the freckles—he's twisted in his seat on the other side of the aisle, expression a strange mixture of exasperated and fond. His gaze flits from the girl to Blaine, "Sorry about her, she's not very nice when she flies…or goes on boats. Or taxis. Or the subway. Or really ever."

"Can it, Lady." She snaps back.

The guy only rolls his eyes, smiles at Blaine again, "I'd say her bark is worse than her bite, but that's a lie. Watch yourself."

Blaine can't really wrap his head around this guy looking at him, let alone talking to him. There's something incredibly distracting about the line of his neck and the freckles on the bridge of his nose, and the sunburn on the tops of his wrists. Blaine shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. He opens his mouth, closes it; opens it again, "I—"

The plane jolts; rattles the overhead compartments and the open tray tables.

Blaine, against his better judgment, grips the girl's—Santana's—seat when the plane gives another harsh shudder.

The speakers give a rough crackle, "This is your captain speaking. You may have noticed that we're going through a bit of turbulence at the moment, so the fasten seatbelt lights are back on. We ask that you all return to your seats if you're up and moving about the cabin, and just hold tight for a bit while we ride through this. Thanks."

The plane shakes again, harder this time, sending a noticeable murmur of surprise through the passengers.

The guy is looking around in his seat, interested for a moment in the sudden upset in the plane. He offers Blaine a small smile, "Better go buckle up."

Blaine nods dumbly, "I…yeah."

He turns and starts back toward his place, blushing furiously because, seriously, he is an idiot.

"Well?" Cooper is grinning the second Blaine is back beside him, "How'd it go? I don't see a number. Did you get a number?"

Blaine preoccupies himself with clicking his seatbelt back into place.

"E-mail address? Fax information? Home address? Pager number?" Cooper lets out an irritated sigh, "Seriously, did you at least figure out if he's from New York?"

"Didn't even get a name." Blaine mumbles.

Cooper groans, "What were you even _doing_ this entire time?"

"Getting bitched at by his girlfriend or friend or something."

"So you _did_ talk!" Cooper pauses; wrinkles his nose, "Girlfriend?"

Blaine shrugs, "Who knows."

Cooper drums his fingers against his armrest, momentarily lost in thought, "Want me to take care of the maybe-girlfriend so you can have your opening?"

"Coop."

"Come on, we'll give it one more try." Cooper slips open the buckle of his seatbelt and stands; rolls his shoulders, "I'm sorry I sent you in cold. With me as your wingman though, there's no way you won't get—"

The plane shakes hard enough to drop him back in his seat.

Blaine shakes his head, "Did you not hear the announcement? Sit down and stay down."

"Always so good with following orders from authority figures." Cooper wrinkles his nose with a grin.

"Shut up." Blaine rolls his eyes.

"Fine, once we get through this little bull ride in the sky thing, we'll go." Cooper twists sideways in his seat, "Lets work on your smoldering faces."

"Lets not."

"Come on, it'll be good for you; when have I ever steered you—"

The plane shakes so hard, it sends up a distressed cry from some of the passengers. It doesn't stop.

Blaine grips the arms of his seat, closes his eyes. "Can we just sit here for now, Coop? Please?"

"Just a little turbulence, B, relax." Cooper pats him on the arm, "Since when are you afraid of flying?"

"I'm not." Blaine speaks through gritted teeth.

"Wait, is this like the Tilt-O-Whirl thing when we were kids? Will it make you puke?" Cooper reaches into the seat pocket in front of him, waves a bag at Blaine, "They have these little guys for that, you know, but if you're going to ralph, can you do it toward the aisle? I don't really wanna have to see it."

"I'm not going to puke." Blaine mutters. "I just don't like the turbulence."

"So the flying thing _does_ freak you out!" Cooper's expressions suddenly lights up, "This is perfect. Remember that acting class I went to a couple weeks ago? The instructor said the best way to know how to act out emotions is to pick a person, follow them around, watch his or her emotions and just do what they do."

"Don't you dare sit here and stare at me." Blaine glowers, "I'm not scared. I just…I have a bad feeling and I'm waiting for it to pass."

"That's an even rarer one to get!" Cooper is reaching for his bag tucked under the seat in front of him, "I'm gonna take some notes. Just stay natural. Keep doing what you're doing."

"I'm officially done funding your acting classes."

The intercom crackles again, "Flight attendants and crew, this is the captain speaking, please take your seats."

Cooper's got his bag halfway into his lap. He pauses, looks out toward the aisle.

Sandra brushes past Blaine's seat, her steps calm but fast. She offers him a fleeting smile as she goes.

The plane goes strangely quiet—the suitcases and bags rattle; the floor jumps; one of the bathroom doors bangs open.

"Cooper," Blaine stares straight ahead, "put the bag away and put your seatbelt back on."

For once, Cooper offers no comeback. His bag is shoved back into place with a foot, and his seatbelt clicks into place. They are both quiet.

When the plane suddenly rocks—one wing dipping down violently—there's a collective intake of breath that no one seems to let out.

Blaine focuses on his breathing even as the rocking gets worse—inhale—they're fine, it's okay—exhale—nothing to worry about—inhale—just a little turbulence—exhale—the pilot will take care of it—inhale—we're over an ocean—exhale—we're tipping—inhale—

Blaine's startled by a sound beside him. He turns, looks.

The little girl from earlier—the one who shoved past him so fast he ran into Santana whose bitching got the boy's attention. She's splayed out on the floor, tripped maybe, eyes wide and frightened.

Blaine looks at her, looks up at the empty seat across the aisle. It's been empty since before they took off. _("Poor guy, probably still asleep somewhere; hope she was worth it."_ Cooper had laughed upon noticing it.) He looks back at the little girl who is apparently too frightened to do little more than remain where he is.

Blaine acts without thinking.

"Blaine, put your seatbelt back on." Cooper's voice is tense, confused.

Blaine ignores him, pushes himself up and out of his seat.

"Blaine." Cooper snaps.

Blaine kneels, gets ahold of the kid by the shoulder.

She stares at Blaine with wide eyes.

Blaine works fast—pushes the girl up into the empty seat, fastens the seatbelt; pulls it tight. He manages what he thinks is an okay smile for the kid, "Everything's going to be fine, okay?"

The girl stares at him for another minute, eyes wide; skin pale. She manages a small nod.

"Just a little turbulence—" Blaine doesn't know why he's still talking. She's safe. She's not putting up a fight. "Turbulence makes planes move sort of bumpy. Like when you're in the car and you drive on a dirt road or through some potholes."

"It's really bumpy right now." She responds, voice faint; nervous.

"It'll pass," Blaine offers another smile, better this time he's sure, "Just hang tight for a bit and then you can go back to your regular seat—you way up there somewhere?"

"First class." The girl responds, eyes flitting up the aisle toward where her own vacated seat most likely is, "I…I wanted to take a longer walk, so I came back to the bathroom back here."

Blaine whistles, "Lucky you; I hear first class has its own movie theater, is that true?"

She smiles just a little, "No….but they've got little DVD players with movies you can watch."

Blaine nods, "Maybe you can watch one when we get through this little rough patch and you get back to your seat."

The plane dips violently and nearly sends Blaine tumbling back against the side of his seat.

"Sir, you need to be in your seat!" A flight attendant calls from somewhere behind him, "Sir!"

The momentary calm on the little girl's face evaporates; she looks frightened once again.

"Sir, please return to your seat!"

"I think she's talking to you." The little girl speaks weakly.

Blaine hesitates for a moment then indicates his vacated seat and Cooper's still-strained face beside them, "I'm right next to you, alright? My brother and me. We're right beside you."

The girl nods again, "Okay."

"Okay." Blaine nods back, and with one final squeeze to the kid's hand, he pushes himself back into his seat.

"Fucking idiot." Cooper mutters, "If this plane doesn't kill me, you will with your idiot heroin complex."

"Shut up." Blaine bites back. "It's hero complex, I don't have one, and we're gonna be fine."

The plane rocks; shakes. Something outside is loud. Too loud.

Blaine grips the arms of his seat for a moment; tries to shake the jittery feel of adrenalin from his limbs.

He focuses on his breathing again.

Inhale.

_The pilot will get us through this._

Exhale.

_Where the hell are that kid's parents._

Inhale.

_I wonder if that boy is scared._

Exhale

_We weren't supposed to even be on this flight._

Inhale.

_Oh God, we're going to crash._

Exhale.

_For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from—_

* * *

**IMPORTANT NOTE**: Due to the change in allowed materials here, and personal preferences, I will most likely only post the first few chapters of Swim for Shore here. You can follow the complete story on my brand spankin new AO3 account: EliaSawyer. Thank you all for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Helloooo, back at it with ch. 2, thanks to those of you who took the time to read and review, it's a great time writing this, but even more fun when I get a little love from you nice folks. On a second note, if you haven't been with me during a WIP before, this is a good time for me to let you know I'm a fickle mess of a human being. That being said, I AM going to continue posting here on fanfiction afterall, so have no fear about trying to figure out AO3 if it's something that's been worrying you. Um...on a final note, just want to cover my bases and throw the warning out there that, because of the nature of the story, there's some yucky injuries mentioned/described and, ya know, a plane crash. On a final note, forgive me any little errors here and there, I got too excited to post and didn't send this off to my darling Becca to fix my fuck ups. Cool? Cool. Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

Water. Water for miles.

He stares out at it and doesn't understand.

Didn't they leave the beach? He's sure they did. His favorite hat forgotten at the condo, the fight over whether or not to go back; the rush through security. He's almost…yes he's sure of it, like the haze clearing from a dream, he remembers it with certainty now—tequila shots taken at eight in the morning as a final toast goodbye, suitcase space fought over, a too expensive cab ride to the airport. They had left the beach behind them.

And yet, here he is—sitting in the crash of waves that soak through his pants and into his skin. His ears ring too loud for him to hear the ocean.

It's the ringing—nagging and overpowering—that alerts him to something not right. Something off, something horribly, terribly _wrong_.

He turns his head and wishes he hadn't, wishes he could wade in the murky half-dream that he is still simply lounging at the beach.

People.

People and blood.

People and blood and fire.

It occurs to him that _his_ person is here somewhere. She has to be.

Santana in her stupid, impractical-for-travel-but-who-fucking-cares red dress. She is here somewhere in that dress and those ridiculous wedges.

He needs to find her. He needs to move and try to make sense of this carnival scene of firecracker noise and gristly sideshow attractions.

He pushes himself up, stumbles; tries again.

His body won't hold him right—his left side feels wrong and unwieldy. He pushes forward anyway.

Along with his hearing, his other senses are off, too. Distorted.

Everything is too bright—colors too sharp; too harsh—fires blaze neon shades of orange and gold, the sun glares on the sand, blood too vivid against skin, scorched luggage and clothes and people dark as pitch scattered across the beach like ashes in the wind.

He smells…campfires. Humid bonfire nights in the summer months of his teen years back in Ohio; charred smell of something cooking, burning. Gasoline like that strangely homey smell of his father's auto shop, it hangs sharp and distinct in his nose.

He gropes blindly for his pocket thinking maybe he'll call his father, ask about the shop now that it's on his mind, but his hands come up empty. No phone. Too bad.

He keeps moving, eyes drifting over too many sights to take in, watching for red.

For as strong as his sight and his hearing and his sense of smell are, he feels…nothing. Not the water soaking through his clothes, nor the heat of the fires blazing around him nor the push of sand beneath his unwieldy feet. He doesn't mind though; can't quite conjure up how he's supposed to go about feeling much of anything except a muted sort of confusion as he steps over charred suitcases.

He knows he needs to ask for help; needs to start questioning people about what's happened; about where his companion is. He casts his gaze about listlessly as he walks until he sees him. He's not sure why it's _him_ out of all of these people that makes him pause, but pause he does. He watches, momentarily fixated on this man kneeling in the sand.

His hair is dark, curling beneath salt water and sweat. He's dressed in a coral colored windbreaker, torn and soaked through by the look of it, his tan shorts in not much better shape. He has only one Sperry Top Sider on. His other foot is bare, caked with sand.

"Excuse me," His voice sounds strained; lost.

The man looks up, wide, honey-colored eyes flickering with recognition, "You."

Kurt stares back, startled, "You're the guy. The guy from the plane."

The guy nods; blinks against the sun in his eyes. (His eyelashes are long, dark; wet with salt water).

There's a little girl sitting sentinel at his side; legs tucked under her chin, skin stained with soot and tears. Her back is toward the wreckage, but she stares hard down at Kurt's feet. "Your ankle."

Kurt stares at the boy for a moment longer before looking down at his legs, still so strangely numb beneath him. His left ankle is swollen; red. Wrong. "Oh."

The guy seems to shake himself from his trance; he motions at the sand, "Sit down—do you know where that girl is? The girl you were with?"

"Santana."

The guy nods, almost looks like he might smile, "Yeah, Santana. Have you seen her? Is she hurt?"

"I was looking for someone to ask if they'd seen her," Kurt gazes around again, "I just…I picked you….I don't know where she is."

The guy offers a strained smile, "You can wait for her. Sit down, seriously, get off that ankle for a bit."

Kurt drops to the sand without protest.

The little girl looks at him, starts to look beyond him.

"Avery," The guy's attention turns to the girl, "Eyes on the trees."

Obediently, she turns her gaze forward again, "I saw a man bleeding."

The guy nods, "That's alright. We're all a little beaten up. We're gonna be fine, alright? We'll wait on Cooper to wake up, then we'll…we'll figure everything out."

"Did you get hurt?" She stares hard at the man.

He hesitates for only a second, "I…No, a little bruised, but I'm alright. How's your head? Is it hurting?"

"It's okay." She looks past the man, "…are you…are you sure he'll wake up?"

"Positive." The guy tries to smile for her, but it looks a little sick, "He's got a thick skull. He'll be fine."

Kurt notices now that this guy is kneeling in the sand for a reason. There is a man stretched out beside him—eyes closed, a nasty looking bruise blooming across his forehead, but still, definitely handsome.

The guy looks between Kurt and the man in the sand, "My brother. Cooper…he's breathing, and…he'll be okay. He's okay."

Kurt nods, looks back out toward the people stumbling through the wreckage.

"My name's Blaine."

There's a hand extended out toward him. He takes it, "Kurt."

The moment he feels soft skin against his own, tacky with the ocean and warm with the sun, things come into focus; too sharp, too real, "Our plane. Our plane crashed. We were in a plane crash."

The guy—Blaine—doesn't let go of his hand. He nods.

"I…I don't even remember crashing. I don't remember…" He's panicking now; can feel his heart pounding too hard under his ribs, "Are you sure you haven't seen Santana? You remember Santana, right? From the plane? Her dress was red, and she had these stupid wedges that didn't even match that well, and I kept telling her it was just a plane ride, but she wanted to wear those stupid shoes, so it'll be impossible for her to walk around on the beach, or what if she was still on the plane, climbing out would be—"

"Kurt," Blaine's eyes are locked on Kurt's face, both hands wrapped around one of his now, "Take a breath, alright? We'll find her. We will."

Kurt realizes he's breathing hard; holding Blaine's hand too tight. "You promise?"

Blaine doesn't hesitate, "I promise."

Kurt closes his eyes; sucks in a breath through his nose; lets it out through his mouth. Slowly, carefully, he releases his vice hold on Blaine's hand.

He can feel Blaine's gaze on the side of his face, hot like a sunburn, "You good?"

"Working on it." Kurt doesn't open his eyes, "Is there a reason you're not panicking or do you just get off on this sort of thing?"

The second the words are out, Kurt's eyes fly open, "I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that. I get—"

"No, it's fine," Blaine stares down at his feet and Kurt wonders if maybe this is the first time he's realizing he only has on one shoe. "Trust me, I'm freaked out."

"Oh," Kurt nods slowly, "…good. I mean—"

"I know what you mean."

He snaps his mouth shut before he can ask about Blaine's lost shoe.

"Could you…" Blaine pauses, tries again, "Could you sit here with Avery and Cooper for a bit? I'll be right back. I'm going to see if I can…I don't know, help someone or something."

Kurt blinks open his eyes, "I could help, too."

"Help by keeping an eye on these two and keeping off that ankle. It doesn't look good." Blaine is on his feet, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks out over the mess of the beach. "I'll keep an eye out for your friend."

"Blaine, stay." The little girl is on her feet; hand fisted in Blaine's windbreaker, "Please. Please stay with us."

He flinches; sucks in a hard breath, but then he's collected again, hands gently unknotting the little girl's fingers from his jacket, "I'll stay close, there are more people that could use some help, though. Like Cooper. What would he have done passed out like that if we couldn't have dragged him over here?"

She stares at her feet, blinking hard. She gives a shrug in response.

"Kurt's gonna sit here with you." Blaine's tone is calm, assured; like leaving his niece or daughter or whatever she is with a total stranger is something he's completely at ease with.

She stands there for a moment; blinking hard and sniffling. Finally, she looks back up at him, "What if Cooper wakes up?"

"Just…tell him what happened. Tell him I'll be right back." Blaine glances toward his brother's prone form, worry marking his face for a moment.

Slowly, Avery sits back down in the sand.

"Good girl," Blaine graces her with a small smile, "Try to keep your eyes on the trees, alright? Don't look out at the crash."

She nods mutely.

Blaine looks to Kurt, "You'll be alright?"

"I…yes." Kurt manages what he thinks is a steady nod.

"I'll keep an eye out for your friend. Maybe try to get some water or something if there is any." Blaine's backing away, his steps a little rigid even in the sand.

Kurt nods again.

Blaine keeps walking backwards, eyes on the three of them for another few yards before he faces forward again; jogs back into the melee.

Kurt looks out at the wreckage, scans the people moving around for any signs of a red dress. Occasionally, he lets his attention switch to tracking Blaine—a blur of coral in his windbreaker—moving further down the beach, pausing occasionally, sometimes for only a few seconds, other times much longer.

The little girl is facing the woods, expression fixed in a determinedly set frown, "You shouldn't look at the wreck."

"No?" Kurt asks faintly, eyes still scanning the beach, "Why not?"

"Blaine says it'll give you nightmares."

"I'm good at dealing with nightmares." Kurt responds.

She's quiet beside him.

He glances at her, "…I'm not so sure about this one. You're probably right."

She glances at him and then back to the trees.

Kurt shifts. He doesn't like the quiet between them. It leaves too much room to listen to people shouting; the grating of metal. "Is Blaine…are they your uncles? Cousins?"

She looks at him again, frowns, "No."

"Mannies?" He tries again.

"What's that?"

"Like a nanny that's a man."

"No."

Kurt looks between Cooper and Avery. She's blonde; green eyed, "Is Cooper your…um, your dad?"

"No."

"Is Blaine?"

She gives him a look like he's a total idiot.

He sighs, exasperated, "I give up. How do you know them?"

"I don't."

"You…" Kurt looks to the shore again, sees Blaine's jacket crouched low with a group of other people. "You don't know them? At all?"

"I fell going back to my seat." She stares at Cooper, "Blaine…Blaine put me in the seat beside him. He got me and Cooper out of the plane when it fell."

Kurt opens his mouth. Closes it. "Were your, um…your parents on the flight somewhere?"

Avery shakes her head, "They're divorced."

"Oh," Kurt hesitates. "So…neither of them was with you? One of them was?"

She looks at him, blinks, "You ask a lot of questions."

He shrugs, "You're very mysterious for a nine year-old."

She smiles a little then, just barely, "I'm eight."

"Old for your age then." He smiles a little, too.

"I don't know what that means."

"It means…" Kurt pauses, considers, "It means you grew up fast."

"Oh." She nods like this makes much more sense. "Yes."

The background noise is loud in his ears again. The shouting and the chaos and all of that terrible wreckage. Kurt clears his throat, tries to not hear it, "So your parents—"

There's groan to Kurt's left. He startles; digs his feet into the sand in surprise and lets out a hiss of pain.

Avery looks between him and Cooper, eyes wide; frightened, "What?"

Kurt closes his eyes; focuses on taking in a few breaths while the shock of pain fades. When he opens them, Avery is crouched over Cooper, brow knit in concentration as she stares at his face.

"What's the matter with him?"

"Nothing," Kurt carefully, slowly, slides a little closer, "He's probably just waking up."

He casts a glance out to the shore. He's lost track of Blaine.

Avery shifts, flighty and upset beside Cooper's stirring, "What do we do?"

"We just…" Kurt casts one last hopeless look out to the shore, "We wait. He'll come out of it on his own."

Cooper's eyes blink open, squint against the sun. He groans again.

"Um, hi," Kurt slides just a little closer; grits his teeth against the drag of his ankle, "We were in a plane crash. You—actually I'm not sure what happened to you, but you were unconscious and—"

Cooper pushes himself into a sitting position; touches the heel of a hand to his forehead. "…Plane crash?"

"That's right."

Cooper opens his mouth like he's going to say something else, then clamps it shut again.

"Are you—oh," The only warning they have that Cooper is going to be sick is a slight paling of his features. He scrambles on his hands and knees a few feet away before vomiting into the sand.

He remains hunched over, breathing heavy and shallow. After a moment he sits up a little straighter and slips closer to them; passes the back of a hand over his mouth; his nose wrinkled. "This is one vivid dream, Jesus."

"It's not a dream." Avery speaks; her voice quiet, nervous. "We really did crash. Blaine said you hit your head."

Cooper looks at her groggy; confused, then out toward the beach. He stares hard at the beach. He keeps staring, murmurs, "It has to be a dream."

"It isn't." Kurt speaks softly; carefully.

Cooper looks at him then and Kurt is a little startled by how handsome he is even with the lump already purpling on his forehead, "Sure. Sure this is real—our plane crashed and the only people with me are that one kid from the aisle and Blaine's crush from six seats up."

Kurt blinks, confused. Cooper has apparently hit his head a little harder than he'd guessed, "I'm not sure…um, I think you might be kind of confused…maybe your head's a little scrambled. You could have a concussion."

Cooper's features suddenly darken, "If this is real, where the hell is Blaine?"

"He's—"

"HUMMEL!"

The sound of a voice—familiar; close—makes Kurt nearly strain muscles in his neck twisting around.

Santana is storming toward him full speed in those damn wedges. Her hair is wild, her eyes a little wilder.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, you stupid, self-obsessed, glitter for brains queen," Santana spits at him, she's looking him over with a mixture of relief and fury, "And you're over here getting your flirt on with some crazed looking Lost extra!"

"I'm not trying to flirt, he's—"

He's not sure how it happens so quickly. How Cooper, still glassy eyed and so recently unconscious, has gotten to his feet. How he, Kurt, has been dragged up with him by the shoulders.

He lets out a cry of pain, sees a flash of white and grey at the corners of his vision when his feet press down into the sand.

"Hey!" Santana shouts, turning her glare towards Cooper.

Cooper's voice shakes, low, dangerous. "Where the hell is my little brother?"

"You fucking let go of him before I—"

Kurt speaks through his teeth, fists his hands against the hurt, "I know you're a little—"

"Cooper," Avery is sobbing now, "Cooper, please, you're hurting him!"

Cooper doesn't hear her; doesn't hear any of them. He shakes Kurt once, "ANSWER ME!"

Kurt can't speak for a moment, too startled; too momentarily numb as he stares at the strange mix of terror and fury dancing behind this stranger's eyes, "Please, he's—"

"Cooper!"

The tempest on his face clears, gaze jerking up and away from Kurt's face. He stares for a moment, mute, then, hopeful, almost lost, "Blaine?"

"Dammit, Coop," Blaine is slip sliding as fast as he can over the sand, "Let him down; his ankle's broken or something for God's sake."

Cooper lets go of Kurt carefully, slowly; eyes still on Blaine.

Santana takes hold of his arm; helps lower him back to the sand.

Blaine looks exasperated, pale, "What the hell were you thinking? You could have—"

Cooper nearly crushes Blaine in an embrace, "You stupid fucking kid. You stupid—"

Kurt can't see Blaine's face fully over his brother's shoulder, but he can see the way his arms come around his waist to return the embrace; hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

They're both mute for a minute, and then Blaine is shifting, pushing away, "Coop, you're gonna crush me. Seriously, let me go."

Cooper hangs on for another few seconds before suddenly gripping Blaine by the shoulders, pushing him away an arms length, "You okay?"

"Fine." Blaine pulls fully out of Cooper's grip, "Sit down, you're gonna make yourself sick running around right after getting knocked out like that."

Kurt finally speaks up, still eyeing Cooper a little warily, "Too late."

Cooper looks down at him, expression suddenly riddled with remorse, "I'm sorry. Really. Just… gotta watch out for this kid, ya know? He'd walk into traffic if someone didn't grab a hold of him."

Blaine shoots Cooper a glare, then down at Kurt, expression softening. "Are you alright?"

"I'll live," Kurt frowns, studies Blaine. He looks tired; skin dirtied with sweat and ash. "Are you?"

"I'll live." Blaine echoes; looks toward Santana, "You two found each other."

"Correction, midget, I found him sitting here with your thug of a brother and then getting mauled by him." Santana bites out. She's seated in the sand beside Kurt, hand brushing his in the sand.

Blaine's gaze flits to Santana, unperturbed. He reaches into his pocket; pulls out a white square of fabric, "You're bleeding. You should put some pressure on that."

Kurt looks more closely at Santana, the initial shock of emotion at seeing her and Cooper's outburst fading enough for him to see that, yes, she is indeed injured. The right side of her face is stained the color of her dress.

She takes the offered fabric, gives a snort, "A handkerchief? What are you, eighty?"

Blaine ignores the jab, "Put pressure on it. Head wounds bleed a lot."

"Eighty and a doctor?" Santana does as she's told; presses the cloth close to a gash hidden somewhere beneath the red on her forehead.

Blaine actually smiles a little then, sheepish, "Eagle Scout."

Santana lets out a derisive snort.

Blaine's moved onto Avery, his expression rearranging to something soft, sweet, "How about you. You okay?"

She keeps her eyes fixed on the sand; works her jaw for a moment. After another few seconds pass, she looks at him, nods.

He nods back, "You remember what I promised you on the plane? That still holds."

She swallows, nods again, "Okay."

Blaine remains crouched in front of their little group for a minute before suddenly collapsing back to sit in the sand; he draws a hand through his hair, gaze moving over the tree line behind them, "Things are starting to get a little less chaotic—I talked to a guy who's organizing a group a little further down the beach of probably thirty or forty right now. They're trying to dig out some water, food; medical supplies or at least something passable as bandages."

Kurt looks down at his ankle—awkward and swollen, "Has anyone found a doctor?"

"There's a med student and a couple nurses still out helping people. The only doctor is an audiologist…I'm pretty sure they don't go to med school or anything like that, but he's down there helping, too. No one I talked to has seen the pilot."

Blaine pauses; glances at Avery.

She stares hard back at him.

He looks down at the sand, sighs, "I think…a lot of people…"

He falls silent and they all know the words that finish that sentence.

Kurt feels something heavy settle in his chest.

None of them speak for a while.

It's Santana who finally clears her throat, looks around at all of them purposefully, "So, what, we join the group until help comes?"

Blaine's eyes are closed, head hung. He looks up, "Sorry, what?"

She rolls her eyes and shifts the handkerchief against her skin, "Playing hero tire you out, Clark Kent?"

An almost smile quirks the corners of Blaine's mouth, "Add deserted island to the list."

"Kurt, tie this for me. Don't waste time trying to make it pretty," She shoves the bloodied fabric into Kurt's hands and turns her glare toward Blaine, "What the hell are you talking about?"

Kurt holds the red-stained fabric between his fingers; rolls it into a more manageable band. He glances toward Blaine.

Blaine's eyes flit to him, his almost smile still in place, "The list of places where she's not very nice."

It takes a second for Kurt to understand, to remember what feels like a different lifetime—the plane; Blaine's wide eyes and red ears. He lifts the handkerchief to Santana's head and busies himself tying it around her head so it can cover the gash in her forehead, he smiles a little, "I told you that list included basically everywhere."

Blaine's still looking at him when he's finished with Santana, eyes thoughtful; contemplative. Kurt finds he can't quite bring himself to look away.

"How long until someone comes to find us?" Avery speaks up, breaking Kurt from his near trance.

Blaine finally breaks eye contact, his gaze moving to the little girl, "Day or two at most. I'm pretty sure planes have locator devices in them."

"There could be natives here who will take us in." Cooper looks to the trees, expression suddenly bright.

"I know that look, shut down the thought process now." Blaine frowns at him. "This isn't a game, Coop."

Cooper looks back at him, expression a little offended, "I thought you might be dead about ten minutes ago, B, so trust me, I'm aware."

Blaine's expression softens, "Fair."

Cooper remains stoic for another few seconds, but then he's smiling, pushing himself to his feet and rolling out his shoulders. He sticks out a hand toward Avery and tugs her to her feet, "Should we get going then or what?"

Santana studies her shoes, "How far are Gilligan and the rest?"

Blaine pushes himself upright, stumbles for a second before finding his footing, "It's a little ways down."

Kurt follows Santana's gaze down to her feet, "I told you those shoes were a terrible idea."

"Right, because _you're_ always so practical about your wardrobe choices." She snaps. She leaves her shoes on and stands, "Besides, I can take my shoes off. What are you going to do about that ankle, gimp?"

Kurt frowns; a little sickened considering the prospect of standing again let alone walk on his swollen-looking limb. For a moment, he misses his previous ringing eared numbness, "…maybe we should just stay here. I don't know if I can—"

"Don't worry about it. I got a good look at the beach; we don't have to cut through all the debris." Blaine offers a hand to him, smiles.

Maybe it's the shock, but when Kurt takes Blaine's hand, there's a sense of comfort in it; familiarity, "Kind of necessary for getting to the camp, isn't it?"

"Just trust me," Blaine winks, "I know a shortcut."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Yay for ch. 3 being done a little earlier than I thought it would be! Since I don't have much of a regular updating schedule (I try for every 5-7 days but that can vary), if you're wanting to stay updated on where I am in terms of getting the next chapter up, you can visit my tumblr (andercas), I tend to whine/rejoice/chat about what's going on with my writing over there. Thank you all so much to everyone for reading and a special thanks to reviewers, you're making getting this fic off the ground extra fun :) Also, super extra thank you to fallingintoaworldoflight over on tumblr for making the fantastic cover image I'm now using on this story :):):)**

**Warnings: depiction of injury, minor character death**

* * *

"Shortcut my ass, that took way more time than if we'd just picked our way through the wreck area," Santana drops into the sand the moment they reach the fringe of the encampment; She tugs off a shoe and throws it toward Blaine's shins, "Good going, boy scout."

"It saved Avery from seeing too much and Kurt from stumbling through debris," Blaine pulls at the bottom of his jacket; tries to force some air in beneath the fabric, too sticky and hot to let it be and too aware of what's underneath to take it off.

"Gotta agree with Lucinda, B, not your best plan." Cooper shifts his hold on Kurt's waist; shakes his sweat-damp hair from his forehead.

It had taken less than a few yards for them to realize, though well intentioned, Blaine's height did little for helping Kurt keep off his ankle. Cooper had good-naturedly offered a piggyback ride _("Come on, the least I can do after being ready to kill you earlier"_). Kurt had adamantly refused.

Blaine ignores Santana throwing her other shoe toward Cooper; he looks at Kurt, eyes flitting over him quickly to assess the damage. His features are pale, sick looking. Blaine feels the pull of guilt low in his gut, "You okay?"

Kurt looks up at him, lips twitching in what must be an attempt at a smile, "Find me Advil, an icepack, a drink, and a cabana boy and I'm sure I'll be fine."

"I'll work on it." Blaine feels himself smile—a strange thing; an almost wrong-feeling thing in light of their circumstances, and yet there it is. He doesn't understand this experience, doesn't understand how something so terrible it makes his insides twist can also allow him these small moments so soon—moments for smiles and jokes with the cute boy from the plane.

Then again, maybe that's the most confusing part—Kurt, handsome, tall; sunburn-on-his wrists Kurt from the plane stumbling through the sand on a broken ankle; skin a canvas of ashen skin streaked with soot and too much sun, eyes all murky sea glass confusion as he stared down at Blaine in the sand like it was perfectly natural he could be the one to help him in this cacophonous mess of a disaster.

"You made it!"

Blaine shakes himself from his thoughts and turns toward the voice. It's the guy from the beach—Tom or Brad or something equally American sounding—he's walking toward them, face distracted and dirty, "Hey, yeah, sorry it took us a bit to get organized."

"Oh my God."

Blaine glances down to the ground where Santana is staring wide eyed between Blaine's beach companion and Kurt.

"It can't—" Santana gets to her feet, staring hard at the man in front of them. "Sam?"

"That's it!" Blaine's pleased to be reminded of the name for less than a second before he frowns, "Wait, how'd you know—"

"…Santana?" Sam is staring at her with equally wide eyes. He looks toward Cooper, "Kurt? How—"

"—What are you even doing here?"

"Are you together?"

"I haven't seen you since high sch—"

"Are any of the others with you?"

"How are you even here?"

"You've got a handkerchief tied around your head."

"Like you can talk, you're missing all the skin off your knees. You look disgusting."

"…I take it you guys know each other?" Blaine finally speaks up, a little dazed.

Sam is still staring at Santana, mystified. Abruptly, he lets out a laugh and then he's sweeping her off the ground in a hug.

Her toes just barely brush the ground for the few seconds he holds her in the air. When she's back on the ground, she does not force herself from his embrace. Instead, she leans back in it, smirks, "My God, I was sure I'd let my imagination exaggerate the size of that mouth, but if anything, I don't think I ever realized how huge it really is."

"And you haven't changed a bit." He laughs, clearly pleased with her teasing. His smile slips quickly though, his face suddenly anxious, "Were any of the others with you?"

She shakes her head, "Just me and Princess Hummel."

Sam's face relaxes, his anxiety apparently abated. He releases Santana to give Kurt a solid clap on the shoulder. His expression softens a little, "Hey, man; you look good."

Kurt stares at him, "Really? Because I was just in a plane crash."

"Right," Sam glances down; whistles, "Blaine wasn't kidding, you definitely broke that thing or something."

Blaine sees his window and speaks quickly, "Anywhere we can let him sit down?"

Sam nods and turns, "Yeah, sure; come on."

When they start picking their way through the small crowd, Blaine tries to take inventory of the others—there's not much notable about the ones milling around, it is the injured that attract his attention. A man with the skin blistered and peeling from his thumb to his neck, another moaning over an arm twisted wrong (when the memory of snapped branches beneath his shoes as a child pops up unprompted, Blaine has to swallow down bile); a woman curled fetal over a bleeding wound Blaine can't see; a child, a little boy, still and ashen in a sobbing woman's arms.

Avery's hand is suddenly hot and damp against his palm. He's not sure now if it's always been there or if he is just now far too aware of it, this child who is not his but is his responsibility. He shifts himself in front of her.

"Close your eyes." He orders; his own gaze still fixed on the weeping mother.

"I won't be able to see where I'm going." Avery's voice shakes. He doesn't know if she's seen the little boy yet.

He tears his gaze away to look at her. "Close them."

She stares back at him for a moment before her eyelashes flutter downward.

He takes a breath; braces himself for the hurt he already knows will come. There's something wrong, of that he is sure—he'd seen it briefly before tugging the windbreaker on when they'd stumbled down into the sand of the beach, he can feel it now; hot knife pain over his ribs; it makes him nauseous with hurt, but he cannot bring himself to truly check it. Not yet. He does not want to be one of these frightening people collapsed in the sand. He needs to stay focused. With one last deep breath in, he lifts Avery from the ground. It's as terrible as he thought it would be and for a moment he staggers; grits his teeth.

Cooper calls out somewhere ahead of him, "B, keep up."

Blaine closes his eyes, allows the pain a few more seconds to cloud his thoughts, "You keep your eyes closed."

"I thought this was where people were coming to wait to get rescued."

He is not a parent; doesn't know how to be one, so he remembers being small and takes a lesson from his parent's book, "It is, just…trust me. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." She doesn't hesitate.

"Alright. Then you've got nothing to worry about." Blaine opens his eyes, starts forward again. He focuses his gaze on the black cotton of Cooper's shirt and longs fleetingly for those childhood days of blind faith that adults could fix most anything from scraped knees to monsters in the closet.

Sam doesn't take them far before he stops, motions at the expanse of beach around them, "There's some big rocks you can lean against; stay off that foot for a bit."

Blaine lowers Avery to the ground; curls his toes against the pain, "…Alright, we're good. You can open your eyes."

She looks at him for a long minute, "…Is something wrong with you?"

He remembers this, too. Remembers those small fractures at the illusion of total safety as a child. Frightened faces when he'd fallen from trees; tears swimming at the edge of his father's eyes when nana had died; a tremor in his mother's voice the time they'd hidden in the basement from a raging storm.

"Just hot," Blaine blinks the spotting from the corners of his eyes, "Tired."

"A few of the guys are still out looking for people and supplies," Sam's inserted himself under Kurt's other arm and is helping Cooper to lower him to the ground. "We told them to be back before dark, so we should have a better count by then."

"What's it at now?" Santana looks toward the heavier part of the crowd, eyes scanning the faces there.

"Last I checked? Forty two." Sam motions a hand at them and Blaine notices a bloodied sheet tied around his palm. "Well, forty seven counting you guys."

"That's a decent number of people," Cooper looks up at them from his place beside Kurt, "Right?"

Sam lets out a long breath, drags a hand—the one uninjured—through his hair, "There were at least a hundred and sixty on the plane—that's what one of the guys said."

They all fall mute and Blaine finds himself looking to Avery.

She's looking out over the rockiness of this new part of the beach, expression giving nothing away except a certain sag of fatigue in her features. Blaine has a fleeting hope she isn't listening; has lost herself to some imaginary world she knows well enough to keep herself safe in. He follows her gaze, relishing the small comfort of this place that is not marred with what has happened to them. He takes a breath and looks back down the other side of the beach; they're a decent distant from the crash, but not so far that he can't see the twisted metal of some of the plane, "…Any sign of the crew?"

Sam shakes his head, "No one that's coming back to camp anyway."

"What about flares or a radio?" Kurt is leaned back against one of the larger rocks, legs splayed out in front of him in a way that doesn't look particularly comfortable. If it bothers him, he's doing little to try and change his position.

Sam looks toward the wreck, "We've been trying to pull out anything we can—we have some medical supplies, not a whole lot of food so far, but a decent amount of water…"

"That's a no on the flares then?"

Sam shakes his head, "We were focusing on the people first, but I think we're kinda, um, running out of ones we can help. Some of the guys wanna try to get a fire started, maybe get us some attention."

Kurt suggests, hopeful, "Cell phones?"

"Broken or not doing us any damn good out wherever we are right now."

"We just have to sit back and wait," Santana sighs, irritated, "they'll know our plane went off course or whatever it did. They'll have computers to figure it all out. And seriously, Gilligan, do something about your knees. They're disgusting."

Sam glances down at his bloodied knees, "I had them wrapped. Kept falling off… I'll try again in a bit when we can take a better inventory of what we've got."

"And maybe take a nap before we do that," Cooper yawns; leans back on his elbows and blinks sleepily.

"Stay awake," Blaine orders him, and if he sounds a little too much like his father, he does his best to ignore it.

Cooper groans, "What are you, our mother? I'm exhausted; I just hauled your special friend all over the place following your stupid shortcut."

"I'm not that heavy." Kurt snaps.

"You've got a concussion. You need to stay awake for a bit." Blaine softens his tone a little; nudges Cooper's foot with his own, "You can sleep later."

Cooper groans but sits up straighter.

Blaine shifts on his feet. He's hot. Nauseous now. He needs something to do; a task to focus on, "Anyone headed back out to the plane? I can go with."

Sam's mouth turns down, cynical, "You look a little rough, man; take a break, they'll come around with water in a bit once they know how much we've got."

"Who the hell is 'they'?" Santana narrows her eyes toward the others on the beach, "And why do they get to decide who gets what when?"

"San, we need a system," Kurt tilts his head back against the rock behind him, closes his eyes. "There has to be a way to keep things organized. Please don't get bitchy about it."

"Maybe you're content to potentially fry here, but I'm not," She snaps back, "I wanna know who these people are."

"Then go find them," Kurt dismisses her with a wave of his hand, eyes still firmly shut. His mouth is set in a line, relaxed. It's his hands that give him away—one balled tight at his side, the other distractedly rubbing at the fabric of his shirt.

Blaine watches him and doesn't know if the nagging hurt in his chest is his own or for Kurt who is so clearly in pain. He turns to Sam, "Any chance you know something about broken bones?"

"Not really…I used to watch a lot of ER. And sometimes I watched Grey's Anatomy with my mom when I was in high school," Sam kneels in the sand, inspects Kurt's ankle close up. He grimaces, "Did you for sure break it?"

Kurt shrugs a shoulder, "Not sure."

"What'd you do to it?"

"I don't know."

Sam's still bent over the injured ankle, hands extended like he wants to touch but won't, "Did you get it smashed up under the seat in front of you? Fall on it funny jumping from the plane?"

"I. Don't. _Know." _Kurt's voice raises; trembles.

Sam's gaze moves to his face, "You just…don't remember how you maybe broke your ankle?"

"I don't remember anything," Kurt's eyes open and he fixes Sam with a cold look. "We were in the air, Santana yelled at Blaine, we hit turbulence, the plane dipped, and then nothing. Blank."

Cooper lets out a low whistle from his spot beside Kurt, "Well, jeez, I got knocked out, but my memory's better than _that_."

Blaine shoots him a look, "Not helping, Coop."

"Just being honest, B; honesty is a good thing," Cooper's face suddenly splits into a grin. "Speaking of honesty, kinda interesting that our buddy Kurt here doesn't remember our plane spiraling out of control and crashing into an island, but he remembers running into you, kiddo."

"For God's sake, Coop, I'm twenty five years old, stop calling me 'kiddo'," For an instant, Blaine is grateful for the heat he can blame his blushing on. He speaks through his teeth; tries to sound calm, "I think I changed my mind, you can sleep."

"So damn touchy, baby brother," Cooper turns his gaze to Sam, "If anyone finds any alcohol, make sure my brother's at the top of the list to get it."

"Cooper, please." Blaine sighs, presses his fingers into the bridge of his nose when the world unexpectedly gives another nauseating lurch beneath him, "Please just…stop talking."

Sam's gaze flits to Avery, "Whose kid?"

Blaine drops his hand back to his side; tries to stand up straight, "She was flying alone."

"Seriously? They let kids do that?"

"A woman at the airport stayed with me until I got on the plane." Avery sits down beside Kurt, studies his drawn features with a pensive look of her own, "Then when I get to the airport usually someone else stays with me until my dad or Vivian picks me up."

Blaine can't focus right, everything keeps blurring at the edges. He shakes his head in a sad attempt to clear it and focuses in on the conversation, "Who's Vivian?"

"My nanny."

"She can't fly with you?"

"No, she stayed with my dad."

Blaine opens his mouth, tries to think of something to say, "…Oh."

The group exchanges a quick look. Even Kurt raises an eyebrow and shares a glance with Santana.

"Well," Sam claps his hands together; shifts awkwardly on his feet, "Better get back to helping the others. Holler if you need anything."

Blaine leans a hip into the boulder beside him, allows his mind a few moments to drift into whatever foggy place is pulling at him. He listens to the others speak; their voices muffled quiet in his ears.

"Is this Lost?" Kurt speaks up, voice forced into something nonchalant; flippant, "Are we actually all dead—pretty soon the rest of our high school friends will start popping up. Magic springs? Smoke monsters?"

Santana rolls her eyes, "Please, we were hardly friends with him. He went to school with us for, what, a month?"

"Seven months."

Santana snorts; smirks, "You _would _remember that, what with how he had your gay little heart all a flutter every time he so much as sang beside you."

"I seem to remember him being a better friend to me in those seven months than you were to me for the first ten years of our schooling together." Kurt replies, voice cool.

Santana's gaze goes down to her bare feet in the sand. She doesn't respond.

"Blaine," Cooper kicks at Blaine's ankle, "Sit."

Blaine shakes himself from his stupor, sinks slowly down to the ground, and finds himself staring at Kurt's feet. "We really should get your shoe off. It can't be good to have it on with that swelling."

Kurt gives Blaine a strained smile, "What, so we can be twins?"

Blaine blinks at him stupidly, "…what?"

Kurt tilts his head, studies him curiously, "Didn't you…you've only got one shoe on."

Blaine looks down to his own feet. One dirty Sperry Top Sider—brown leather and laces in tact, rubber edging a little scuffed. His other foot is exposed, the top already pink with a sunburn; his toes caked white with sand. There's an old blister—brought on by new shoes worn too soon and too long—cracked open and bleeding on the edge of his big toe. "Huh."

"Good to know I'm not the only one with a patchy memory," Kurt offers a funny smile before leaning forward and reaching for his injured foot.

"No, wait," Blaine slides closer, tucking his own bare foot beneath him, "Let me help."

"Wanky," Santana sing songs.

They both ignore her.

Blaine undoes the laces carefully, keeps his fingers light against Kurt's foot. Gently, carefully he slips a hand under his heel, "You good?"

Kurt braces himself slightly—shoulders stiff, hands fisted. He swallows; smiles, "Just promise you won't try to steal my shoe and then, yes, I'm good."

Blaine smiles a little in return; nods. He tightens his hold on Kurt's heel, rests the other atop his foot and pulls gently.

After listening to so much shouting for the past few hours (has it been that long? Longer?), the sound of one more cry of pain shouldn't be surprising; shouldn't make his breath catch and his body startle, and yet it does. Kurt screams and Blaine nearly drops his foot back to the sand.

"Stop." Santana orders; sharp.

Blaine moves to let go; tries to lower Kurt's still mostly-shoed foot back to the sand.

"No—" Kurt bites out, eyes squeezed shut tight, "Just get it off, it's worse like this, please, please just get it off, Blaine—"

Blaine sucks in a breath, holds it, takes hold of Kurt's foot again, studies it for a moment as he readies himself—brown leather saddle shoe; cream stitching around its edges—his breath comes out as the shoe slides off.

He'd braced himself for another scream, but it doesn't come—Kurt arches his back; digs his fingers into the sand. When the shoe is off, he sags limply back against the rock behind him, a marionette with the strings cut suddenly free. The only sound he emits is a low moan.

"I'm sorry," Blaine cradles the shoes in his lap, a little sick with having caused this poor boy even more pain.

Kurt shakes his head, keeps his eyes closed.

"Wonderful, thank you," Santana touches a hand to Kurt's forehead, wipes away the sweat beaded across his brow, "Real helpful, boy scout."

Blaine pushes himself upright, "I'm gonna go talk to Sam about getting him something for the pain—maybe someone's found some Advil or Vicodin or just…I don't know, something."

Avery scrambles to her feet, moves to his side, "I'll come with you."

"No, stay," Blaine casts a look around, tries to come up with a reason for why she can't stay at his side, "Just…keep Coop awake; watch Kurt and Santana, can you do that for me?"

She stares at him, expression stormy, "I'm not stupid. I know you're just trying to make something up so I'll stay here."

"Fine," Blaine concedes, he holds out Kurt's shoe, "You're right, can you just stay here for me because…because I'm asking you to."

She stares at the brown leather for a moment before slowly reaching out to take it, "…Fine."

"Thank you," Blaine tries, futilely, to shift the air beneath his windbreaker again, "I'll be back in a few."

He stumbles his way across the sand and into the crowd again, eyes scanning faces for Sam. He recognizes some of those he sees both from the beach and from before the crash—a man who'd fought hard to get his suitcase stowed a few rows ahead of him, a man and a woman around Blaine's age who couldn't keep their hands off each other as they made their way down the aisle when they'd first boarded the plane, a guy from the beach who'd pulled a woman free from under a warped piece of metal, a cigarette tucked behind his ear the whole time he'd worked.

Blaine meets his eyes, nods in greeting, "Hey."

"Hey," The guy echoes. He's seated in the sand with a pile of t-shirts in front of him. He plucks one from the pile and tears the sleeve free with an easy pull; he gives Blaine a funny smile and holds out the fabric, "Got anyone bleeding out?"

"No. Bleeding, but not that bad anymore."

The guy drops the sleeve into a pile of shredded shirts at his side and turns back to his work.

Blaine watches him tear the body of the shirt into strips in silence for a moment, "Is there someone in charge of medicine?"

"If you've got a bit of whiplash, I'm afraid you're not gonna find much sympathy," the guy pauses to glance up at Blaine, "Though I will admit you look a bit peaked, friend."

"No, not for me," Blaine motions a hand from the direction he's come from, "I have someone with a broken ankle."

"And I got someone missing the better part of his leg," the guy smiles grimly, "Wait 'till tomorrow. If no one's come for us by then, I'm sure I can talk someone into giving your girl something…come to think of it, get her to hang in there a few more hours and I'm sure someone will have something to spare."

"It's a guy," Blaine rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly exhausted.

The man tilts his head, his eyes glittering with a strange sort of interest, "Huh."

"What?"

The guy gives a slow smile—attractive; dangerous, "Nothing, just finding you more interesting than I originally thought, Ralph Lauren."

He doesn't know how to interpret the comment; decides not to try, "My name's Blaine."

The guy offers a hand, "Trip."

He shakes Trip's hand, "Why later?"

"Why later what?"

"Why give him something later but not now?"

Trip's smile falls. He casts a look around and motions Blaine toward himself.

Blaine crouches lower, apprehensive in this sudden need for secrecy.

"Look around," Trip's voice is low, eyes still shifting over the people around them, "You really think half these people in our little beach ER are going to make it through the next few hours with nothing but a sophomore nursing student to watch them and a fucking t-shirt to hold their guts in place?"

Blaine swallows dryly, doesn't respond.

Trip turns his attention back to his t-shirts, "Like I said, ask again tonight."

Blaine straightens back up, mumbles, "Nice to meet you."

Trip gives him a lazy salute.

Blaine keeps walking, fingers numb, head suddenly buzzing.

"I COULD USE SOME HELP OVER HERE!"

Blaine turns toward the voice, the shout strangely grounding. It's Sam, a woman in his arms, her head lolling limply against his shoulder. Her arms and legs sway, broken doll limbs the color of coffee, and, for a moment, Blaine is transfixed on the smoothness of her skin as Sam lowers her to the ground and Blaine feels himself pulled forward by some instinctive need to help; to do something.

He crosses the small stretch of beach quickly, drops to his knees beside her and its only then he sees all the blood. Her abdomen is slick with it, muscles and tissue torn, the white arc of a rib gleams through the carnage. She is not so simply saved as he had hoped, but he will try. Has to try.

"Get your hands away," Blaine orders, "You've got an open wound on your hand."

Sam drops back, breathing hard, "She walked. She walked from all the way—she didn't drop until she saw me. How'd she—how do you walk with—"

Blaine ignores him, eyes scanning over the mess. He doesn't know where to begin. He touches a hand to her hair, "Sam, those nursing students—find one. Go. Fast."

Sam doesn't hesitate. He pushes himself to his feet, runs into the group, shouting names.

Maybe one of the names Sam shouts matches her own; maybe it's the touch of Blaine's hand, but suddenly there are eyes on him; wide, glassy.

He stares back into them, "We were in a plane crash. There's nursing students—there's people coming to patch you up."

She stares at him, silent.

She will not live, not for long anyway, he can see that already, but still he needs to do something, needs to do more than just stare at this girl as she bleeds out. He strokes his hand through her hair, gentle; careful, "Don't be afraid."

She's shaking, her breathing wet, choked.

He brushes the sand from where it sticks to her curls, tucks them gently into place away from her cheeks, "Are you, um…are you Christian?"

Her gaze is still fixed on his face; she manages a small movement—an almost invisible tipping of her chin.

"Alright," His hand comes to rest on her forehead, "Okay."

He drudges through his memory for the words and they are not so deeply lost as he thought they would be. He slips his hand into hers, the other still on her face, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures: he leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul: he leads me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake—"

Blood bubbles at the corner of her mouth. Her grip tightens on his hand.

"—Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for you art with me; your rod and your staff they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies: you anoint my head with oil; my cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever…"

Her grip locks down even harder, gaze frightened for a moment as she stares at him. It takes only a few minutes before her hold on his hand goes slack, her eyes vacant.

Blaine swallows, slips his hand from her hair to close unseeing eyes, "…Amen."

"They're both working on people, but they're coming as fast as they can. I brought some shirts to try and stop the bleeding. And water, I got some of the water for her—" Sam is panting as he sprints back down the beach. He freezes, abruptly mute. Slowly, he drops to his knees at Blaine's side, stares at her, "…is she…"

Blaine releases her hand and takes one of the torn t-shirts Sam has dropped down beside them. He covers her mutilated stomach, "Yeah."

Sam drags a hand through his hair, leaves it fisted in the crown of it, "Fuck."

They sit in silence together, stare at the girl in front of them.

"…Forty four." Sam says, quiet; sudden.

"She wasn't a part of the count," Blaine's gaze flickers to Sam's profile. "And we were at forty seven."

"If we'd have counted her, we would have been at forty nine, we got another guy a little bit ago," Sam turns his gaze to Blaine, "We're at forty four now."

Blaine looks toward the ocean over Sam's shoulder and swears he can feel its weight. Pressing against his bones, crushing him. He stands quickly, blinks against the grey at the edge of his vision.

"Woah, where you going?" Sam is up beside him, voice hovering somewhere beside his ear, "You're not looking too good, man."

"I need to do something," Blaine mumbles, mind swimming. He wills his feet to move him forward, back toward his group.

"I think you need to sit down, bro, you just watched that girl die. I sent someone over to your group with water, you get any of that?"

"…Trying to get painkillers for Kurt." He scrubs at his eyes, hand clumsy and foreign against his face.

"Blaine, seriously, just—"

Whatever it is Sam is trying to tell him, he doesn't get to hear. It's drowned in the sound of crashing waves. He's vaguely aware of hitting the sand, of his side lighting up with pain. It is this final burst of lightning hurt, a last flash of glowing skin fading fast in the sand so close to him that makes him give in to that relentless crash of the waves.

The world goes dark.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'm sorry for the wait on this one; life has a funny way of getting crazy and I've been a busy girl. I'm posting this with some pretty minimal editing since I just want to get it out there for you guys, so forgive a few minor hiccups in spelling and whatnot if you notice them. Thank you all so much for your lovely words and for your patience!**

**Warnings: Depictions of injuries**

* * *

There is something beautifully calming and terrifyingly heavy in the sound of crashing waves.

Kurt focuses in on it, drowns himself in it. He finds that it helps if only a little.

The rush hour traffic sounds of people has turned softer; a low electric hum somewhere off to his left, and he thinks maybe it is this, too, that soothes the frayed wire pain in his leg. He opens his eyes to find that the sun has sunk low in the sky, stained the sand orange and the ocean bleeds darker now on the horizon.

Avery stands close to it, the surf brushing her feet as she digs at something in the sand with her toes. Kurt watches her as she lowers herself closer to the ground and pries something from the sand. A shell. He can see it now as she comes back up the beach, wet up to her ankles, feet and hands already sugar coated in white sand.

She's anxious, has been for the past hour or so, eyes flitting up the beach to where Blaine had disappeared. Kurt wonders absently if she will present him with her beach find upon his return or if she will keep it for herself, a pretty little souvenir from this gristly, unprompted trip to the beach. She drops down into the sand beside him, turns her treasure over in her palms.

It's a part of a conch shell, outside dirtied grey, belly still glistening pink in the increasingly dusky light. Kurt smiles a little, "Pretty."

She nods, eyes still on the shell.

Kurt considers saying something else, but she seems content to sit quietly and so he does not push it. He tips his head back against the rock behind him, watches the others.

Santana has discovered a suitcase that she's busily rummaging through, sorting out items inside it into neat little piles—a green t-shirt, pairs of socks, a travel sized tube of toothpaste, a bottle of sunscreen—she places them all back neatly in the bag, studies the contents in silence. Kurt doesn't ask if she plans to share them with the others, too tired to engage in the fight he know will come if she doesn't.

Cooper is dragging a stick through the sand, doodling images Kurt cannot follow and smiling a little to himself. Sometimes he hums under his breath and Kurt swears he hears Party in the U.S.A. at one point. He looks up occasionally, toward Avery or Santana or offers a smile over his shoulder to Kurt (and if he winks once or twice, Kurt will never admit to blushing).

Kurt looks past him when a cheer goes up toward where some of the others have been bent over a teepee of broken branches for what seems like ages. There is an orange glow; a curl of smoke, and Kurt can't help but smile at their success. They shake hands and clap each other on the back, seemingly oblivious when Sam passes them, stumbling with the weight of a body in his arms.

The sun is still bright; dusk still an hour or so off. Kurt raises a hand to his brow to shade his eyes to make sure what he sees is correct. He feels a dull curl of fear lace itself through his ribs when he recognizes a coral colored windbreaker, a hand soaked in blood.

"What the hell?" Cooper's shout is sudden, his stick abandoned to the ground as he scrambles to his feet.

Sam lowers Blaine to the ground beside Kurt, wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. His shirt is soaked in blood.

"Blaine? Blaine!" Cooper is back on his knees in the sand, shaking his brother's shoulder. It's all Kurt can do to try and keep his injured leg out of the way.

"Jeez, man, gentle with him, and watch out for Kurt," Sam is panting, he wipes at his forehead again, "Dunno what happened he—"

Cooper is wiping at a streak of blood on Blaine's face, eyes darting madly between the claret stains on his fingers and those drying on his face, "Where's he even bleeding from? I can't find any—what the fuck happened?"

"He's not bleeding," Sam motions between his ruined shirt and Blaine's face, "It's not our blood. He just…he seemed okay and then he wasn't, and he just, he dropped. I don't know what's wrong with him, I thought maybe…he saw a girl die, sat with her, I thought maybe it got to him or something, but he's all sweaty and moan-y and I just—I don't know. I didn't know what to do."

"How about getting someone who knows a god damned something about medical shit, huh? You ever think of that?" Cooper snaps; he pats a hand against Blaine's cheek, "Come on, B; get up. Wake up, man."

"They're swamped—people are missing limbs over there. They told me to try and get him out of the sun; give him some water if he'd take it. They'll check on him when they can."

"Maybe he's hurt," Avery's voice is quiet beside Kurt, the shell gripped too tight between her hands, "He seemed…earlier, he seemed like something was hurting him."

"No, he was fine," Cooper stands, stares down at Blaine with a mixture of frustration and anxiety, "You saw him earlier, he was okay. Something happened, something's—if those nurses are busy, who else do we have? Who can fix him?"

"Dude, he's just passed out, I don't know what you want me to tell you."

"There is something _wrong_ with him, I know my brother, I know—"

Kurt isn't listening anymore. He twists sideways as much as his leg will allow him, studies Blaine's prone form. This stranger whose ears had turned red with embarrassment on the plane, this person who'd stumbled off to find him something for his pain, this man who'd apparently sat with a girl while she died and stained his hands with her blood. Kurt doesn't know what he feels—guilt, maybe, but it feels like something more complex. He reaches out a tentative hand and ghosts his fingertips over Blaine's hairline but finds no injury there. He feels up a little higher, fingers tangling in Blaine's curls despite his carefulness. He tries to be gentle when he pries them free, turning them over for inspection. There is no red on his fingers, no telltale raised bump, no hint that something has happened to his head, he glances over his arms, his legs.

He frowns at the windbreaker, plays back his foggy memory of the plane—Blaine's red ears, a hand raised, palm out, in a desperate attempt to fend off Santana's angry words…. "Stripes."

Sam looks from Cooper to Kurt, "Huh?"

"On the plane," Kurt stares down at the jacket, "he had on a white short sleeved shirt with blue stripes. He wasn't wearing this."

Cooper stares at the jacket as though seeing it for the first time, brow knit in a frown. He drops back down into the sand, reaches for the zipper, fingers more careful now. He eases it down slowly, pushes the fabric aside when he's reached the bottom, "Oh, Blaine."

Blaine's shirt is sweat soaked, tattered and scorched black across the left side.

When he was a child, Kurt had once seen a motorcycle at his father's shop. It was a lovely machine—candy apple red and flashy chrome. He'd been fascinated by it, drawn like a moth to the flame by the pretty color and the smooth angles of the frame. He'd pressed his hand to the still-hot muffler and torn it away before he could process what had happened. He'd started screaming upon the sight of his palm, skin withered, blistered, weeping; the pain had set in then, blinding and hot as the muffler that had peeled the skin from his palm. He'd screamed the entire way to the hospital.

He remembers it now and doesn't as he stares down at Blaine's exposed skin. Burns are a funny thing, he thinks; a terrifying thing—they are not like cuts and scratches, those are simpler—tissue splits, arteries and veins tear, if it's bad enough, muscle and organs and bone might show or break, too, but that is all they are really—openings; a splitting of what's always been there.

Burns, though, burns change people.

Burns warp skin into something twisted and foreign, bubble tissue and melt hair and fat and tendon. Burns turn pretty flesh scorched and wrong; paint and carve hellscapes into whatever surface they can curl their fingers around.

Blaine's side is scorched raw and open; blistered in some areas, glistening red and pink in others; one particularly nasty spot is mottled yellow and black, dry and ominously dead looking. Kurt stares, transfixed, and finds himself calculating numbers that he doesn't understand until he sums them. Six. Six of his kindergarten palms would fit in the area of Blaine's burn. He shivers under the orange glare of the sun.

Cooper's hands hover close to the injury, ghosting over it as though he can will it away if he tries hard enough. He swallows dryly, "What do I do? How do I fix him?"

"Salt water?" Sam ventures, brow knit, "Doesn't salt water clean stuff out? We got a whole ocean."

"I saw a thing on Man Vs. Wild once where they used flies and maggots to clean out an infected cut or something…you seen any bugs around here? You think that could help?"

"Hey, yeah, I've watched that one, too," Sam snaps his fingers, eyes lighting up, "There was one where they said peeing on an injury can—"

"Seriously, how did either of you survive New York let alone this plane crash?" Santana kneels beside Cooper, adjusts the left strap of her dress, "the ocean has shit in it, it'll probably melt his skin off or something. Maggots are for infections that he doesn't even have, and if any of you even _think _about whipping out your dicks right now, it's the last time you'll have dicks to whip out. Got it?"

Sam nods quickly, "I'll just…I'll go ask the nurses what they know about burns."

Santana waves him away absently, still frowning down at the scorched skin over Blaine's ribs.

Cooper's eyes swim blue as he stares at Satana, his fingers momentarily locked around Blaine's wrist, "How do you know? I get the other two were shots in the dark, but how do you know the salt water one is bad?"

"A little something called common sense. Don't worry, I don't expect you to have heard of it before," Santana reaches around Cooper and pulls Blaine's sleeve down in one smooth motion, "We don't have water to waste for pouring on it and you don't wanna be putting a bunch of shit on it. Get him out of his stupid jacket and find something to wrap up his side to keep the sand out. That's all you can really do for it right now."

Cooper nods, "Okay. Yeah, okay. What do I wrap it with? Do we have bandages? Should I—"

"Oh for God's sake, does Blaine spoon feed you and hold your hand to cross the street?" Santana rolls her eyes and strides purposefully back to her suitcase, "That's the problem with attractive men, you never have any idea how to do anything for yourselves."

She returns with three t-shirts, drops them into Cooper's lap, "Why don't you put those muscles to good use, Ken, and start tearing those shirts up. We can use them as bandages."

Cooper obeys without protest.

Santana meets Kurt's gaze, "Get his shirt off."

Kurt blinks, confused, "Me?"

"Seeing as how you're the most useless gimp in the group and aren't about to go running off to see if someone knows something better about dealing with shrimps who melt their skin off, yes, I mean you."

Kurt gives her a withering look before turning his attention back to Blaine. He touches a tentative hand to the cuff of the sleeve still over his arm, tugs at it gently. It's slow work getting the jacket off—the fabric down from his shoulder, the sleeve down his arm. He stares at the tattered t-shirt, frustrated, embarrassed. He reaches tentatively for the hem, feels it between his fingers. The fabric is soft, damp. For a moment Kurt thinks of men at bars—of taking people home, of stripping off equally soft, sweat-dampened fabric, of the same fabric sliding back over his own skin in the morning—wrinkled, worn; a little wrong.

He shakes the thought from his head; this is not a bar. This is not someone he's gone home with. He pushes the shirt up an inch, tugs it up another when it sticks in the sand beneath his back.

He stares at the exposed skin of Blaine's stomach absently, tries to think of a way to get the shirt the rest of the way off that won't require bothering his broken ankle in the process. He comes up with nothing and there's something strangely upsetting in that. He rubs a thumb over the place where he still grips Blaine's shirt, speaks quietly, "I'm sorry."

"Hummel, he's passed out and his side is cooked," Santana snaps, "You don't have to seduce him while you take his clothes off, hurry the fuck up."

Kurt looks up at her, helpless, "San, this is all I can really do. I can't lean over far enough to sit him up and get the t-shirt off."

Santana makes a sound of disgust in the back of her throat, scoots on her knees back over to Blaine's side. She takes hold of his elbow, manipulates his arm out of the sleeve like a doll. She's gentler with the other on his injured side, keeps her movements small, slow. She tugs the collar off over his head, inspects him. Blaine doesn't move. She gives a small nod, pleased with herself, "Give me one of those shirts."

"No," Cooper shifts closer, shredded shirts draped neatly over his lap, "I'll do it."

She narrows her eyes at him, quiet for a moment, then, "Don't wrap them tight, don't get sand in them, and, for fuck's sake, don't put them in the ocean or down your pants or wherever the hell you might think to put them."

He nods, waves her off, "Yeah, yeah, thanks, Shania."

She glares at the back of his head, seems to consider finding something else to throw at him. In the end, she opts to simply turn away, "I'm gonna go hunting for something decent to sleep on…Hey, kid."

Kurt doesn't know who she's talking to at first, thinks it might be him before he sees her face—the softness, the sadness—she's talking to Avery.

He looks at her now, feels a sadness of his own at the sight of her.

She's staring hard at Blaine. Skin pale, eyes swimming; shell white knuckled in her hand. Kurt knows the feeling floating behind her eyes—know what it is to be terrified when you think you might lose the only person you truly have.

"Kid," Santana says again, her voice gentler now, hand extended, "Come on, we'll find something decent to sleep on."

Avery doesn't move. Doesn't take her gaze off Blaine. "…For him, too?"

Santana glances at Blaine, "Sure."

Avery remains still for another beat before she scoots forward a few tentative steps around Kurt in the sand before she freezes again. She swallows, doesn't look at anyone in particular, "Will he die?"

"No." Cooper looks up at her, expression flat.

She's fixated on the shell hanging in her hand, "How do you know?"

Cooper frowns down at the sand for a few seconds, thoughtful. He looks back up at Avery, "You got a big brother?"

She shakes her head, "I'm an only child."

"So you don't know the big brother rule."

She shakes her head again.

"No matter what happens—when your stupid, snotty kid brother gets in trouble or he's scared or he's hurt. You fix it."

She looks at him, mute.

"Big brothers don't let little brothers die." Cooper stares hard at her. "Period."

Avery doesn't look convinced, but she voices no protest.

Kurt glances between them, down at Blaine. He is sure Blaine will not die from this injury, not yet anyway. Not unless infection sets in, maybe then even not. He'll be alright the same way Kurt will be alright—a little broken, a little scarred maybe; but they'll be fine. They have to be; they're going to get rescued. It's just a matter of time. "It's true."

They're all looking at him now, and it takes a moment for Kurt to realize he's spoken aloud.

"I know people with big brothers. It's true, that's the rule."

Avery stares at him for a long moment and then back at Blaine. She crouches into the sand, places the shell gently near Blaine's hand.

Santana smiles when Avery holds onto her hand, "Come on, I think I saw a guy up there with those red airline blankets— if we get our hands on them, we'll feel like we're flying first class while we're here."

They walk slowly, Avery twisting around every few seconds to look back at Cooper and Kurt.

Kurt watches until they disappear into the small crowd.

Cooper is humming, apparently already removed from Avery's fear of his brother's death. He keeps humming, under his breath now, as he assesses Blaine for a few minutes. He drops the shredded shirts into Kurt's lap, "Hold onto those."

Kurt dusts the sand from them, watches as Cooper lowers himself to one knee between Blaine's legs and tips his brother forward by the shoulders.

He ends up with Blaine's forehead on his shoulder; one arm under Blaine's the other held out towards Kurt. He snaps his fingers, makes a grabbing motion with his hand impatiently.

Kurt hands over a piece of fabric mutely.

Cooper's humming quiets as he wraps the first strip neatly around Blaine's middle, ties it off with surprisingly nimble fingers, "When we were kids, you know what this guy wanted to be when he grew up?"

Kurt shakes his head, offers another strip of fabric.

"A singing superhero," Cooper snorts, keeps working as he talks, "Called himself Nightbird—thought it sounded mysterious, but like, birds sing, so he thought the two went together nice."

Kurt smiles a little, not sure how to respond.

"Anyway, our parents were busy people, so I watched the kid a lot." Cooper ties off the second strip, takes the offered third, "one time—Blaine had to be about six cause I'd just gotten my driver's license— I was pissed I had to sit at home and watch him and he'd wanted ice cream, but I said no, so he got all pissy and went outside to play. He climbed this tree to scout for danger or rescue a squirrel or maybe he just wanted to climb it, I'm not sure, he was a weird kid—"

Blaine moans when Cooper ties off the third bandage.

Cooper takes a fourth strip, doesn't slow in his work. "He fell out, broke his arm in two places and screamed his damn head off until I got out there and carried his sorry ass to the car so we could go to the hospital—"

Blaine moans again, pathetic, quiet; he shifts against Cooper's shoulder.

"Go back to sleep, squirt, you're gonna be fine," Cooper's palm momentarily flattens against Blaine's back. It stays that way for a few seconds, thumb brushing absently over the line of Blaine's spine and then he's continuing on with wrapping the fabric, "Anyway, I thought for sure he'd rat me out to our parents for not just taking him for his stupid ice cream, so I stopped at a McDonald's drive thru and got him a twist cone on the way to the hospital. He threw it up all over the ER waiting room."

Cooper sits back, holding Blaine up by the shoulders to assess his work. He's quiet as he lays him back down, bundles what's left of the shredded shirts into a makeshift pillow behind Blaine's head, "…He apologized about a hundred times for it."

Kurt doesn't know what to say. Isn't sure if he's supposed to say anything at all.

Cooper looks up at him, his expression suddenly lighter, easier. He grins, "Think we can get a book deal out of this whole thing?"

Kurt blinks, stares.

Cooper is still smiling blithely and Kurt doesn't know if the question is meant to be taken seriously or not.

"I don't think an overnight on an island would make a very long book." He speaks carefully, gauges Cooper for a reaction.

Cooper tilts his head, frowns, "You might be right…you think they'll rescue us that quick?"

Kurt shrugs, "Why wouldn't they?"

"One time I tried out for this show," Cooper sits crisscross, leans forward over Blaine, "These people crashed on an island and they were stuck there for years—it was a crazy place, too. Like, zoo animals running around and ghosts and aliens and stuff."

"…Isn't that the plot of Lost?"

Cooper frowns, "No. Totally different show."

"…Oh…" Kurt studies Cooper's face. He feels a vague sense of recognition, but he can't place him, "…so you're an actor?"

Cooper nods, his grin widening, "You might know me from my role in the Lifetime television movie _The Pool Boy's Secret_."

Kurt smiles a little, "Were you the pool boy?"

"Nah, wedding guest number five," Cooper looks at Kurt seriously, "I took one of the producers aside and told him, I said, 'listen, you gotta give attention to all your characters, not just the main ones. They need backstories, ya know? Names and stuff.'"

"…Did he give you a backstory?"

"Better," Cooper's mouth turns up into a proud smile, "He trusted my judgment so much, he told me I could give a name to every single wedding guest."

Kurt feels something sick stir in him, painful and hot, curling around his leg, his stomach, his head. He tries to ignore it, "…what…what was your character's name?"

"Steven," Cooper sits back on his hands, glances toward Blaine then back at Kurt. "B was a real trooper. I did a lot of method acting for that role. He did a good job of giving me the space I needed to really get a feel for the character."

"Mm." Kurt closes his eyes, feels the electric shock of angry nerves, broken bones. Whatever shock of adrenaline had calmed his system earlier is fading fast, eroding into white light pain.

"You okay?" Cooper's voice is distant, lost in the shrapnel shocks of pain in Kurt's head.

He focuses on his breathing. Thinks of the ocean. The hurt ebbs and flows with the waves, "…fine…tell me more about Steven."

Cooper prattles on for Kurt doesn't know how long. Tells him about Steven's troubled past and even more troubled future with one of the other wedding guests (he had named her Lila and she'd been a terrible actress, not committed at all). He tells Kurt about the Gillette commercial (he's one of the blurry guys in the back of a locker room), the_ Pool Boy's Secret_ sequel that, unfortunately, never-came-to-be, about being a crowd member in _Transformers 4_, about a close brush with big stardom when he tried out for _Gossip Girl_ once.

Kurt listens, focuses with his eyes closed.

"I asked him if he needed any damned bandages and he turned me down flat. That's what you get for trying to help people, though, I suppose."

A new voice. Vaguely British, definitely not Cooper.

Kurt blinks open his eyes to find the sun has dipped low on the horizon—the sand is more purple than orange now. He blinks at the stranger looming over him.

The guy has a cigarette tucked behind one ear, hair hanging loose against his forehead in auburn streaks. His eyes are alarmingly green and raking over Kurt slowly, "My oh my, you are a sad, pretty little thing, aren't you?"

Kurt blinks, tries to dredge up if he'd met anyone else on the plane other than Blaine, "Do we know each other?"

"Trip Morgan." The guy offers a hand.

"Kurt Hummel," Kurt reaches up for his hand, cringes at the shift in his body.

"Now we know each other," Trip crouches lower, smiles in a vaguely dangerous way, "I've got something for you."

Kurt stares down at Trip's opened hand. A little array of pills sit neatly on his callused palm, "What are they?"

"Acetaminophen, codeine, and that little guy is some vitamin C to put a little spring in your step," Trip glances down toward his ankle, "Or, well, you know, something like that."

Kurt looks back up to Trip's face, "Why?"

Trip raises an eyebrow, "Judging by your foot doubling as a club, I'm assuming you've got a broken bone or two that are giving you some trouble."

Kurt glances down at his ankle, wishes he hadn't.

"You're a damn lucky son of a bitch I even got my hands on the codeine, friend," Trip studies the pills in his hand for a moment. Tips it from side to side. He stretches his palm out closer to Kurt's face, "Down the hatch, pal."

Kurt frowns at him, "Why for me? How'd you know?"

"Made a promise to your devilishly charming, slightly shell shocked companion," Trip glances toward Blaine, a frown of his own turning down his smile, "He alright?"

"Fine." Cooper glances down, too, but then more unsurely back at Trip, "…you know anything about medicine?"

'Don't rub dirt in an injury, if it's spurting blood, you hit an artery, and a fucking hangnail hurts as bad as slicing off your whole goddamn finger," Trip shrugs a shoulder.

Cooper chews at his lip, studies Blaine, he looks up again, hopeful, "You know where I can get a hold of paper and something to write with?"

Trip shakes his head, "Afraid not, why, you hankering to send out a message in a bottle?"

"Acting notes."

"He's an actor." Kurt says flatly.

"Hm." Trip appraises Cooper with a vague sort of interest before turning back to Kurt, "You want these or not?"

Kurt looks back down into Trip's hand, oddly unsure, "…The other people up the beach—"

"Fish food."

Kurt recoils, nearly whimpers at the pain it sends up his leg.

Trip frowns, sighs, "Sorry, forgot to filter—there's not many they can save… Too many injuries, too big of injuries and having only two wannabe nurses just isn't helping out our case much."

Kurt shifts again, more careful this time. He glances toward where Trip has a strip of a blue shirt tied around his arm, "…don't you need them?"

Trip follows his gaze, "I don't do pain meds. Call me a man of the earth."

Kurt glances at the cigarette behind Trip's ear but doesn't comment.

Trip sighs, irritated, "Seriously, mate, I have better things to do than sit on my ass next to you and try to force feed you meds."

A sound of something moving against the sand shifts Kurt's attention. Blaine. Kurt watches him—sweat on his forehead, nose sunburned, cheeks ashy. "Give them to him."

Trip looks toward Blaine, too, "He wanted me to give them to you."

"And I want you to give them to him," Kurt keeps his gaze on Blaine. When he moans, quiet, almost sad, Kurt looks back at Trip, "Please. He saved me, he took care of his brother and that girl, just…please, give them to him. Not me."

Trip rolls his eyes, "Fucking hell, split the damn things, I'm done listening to your whining and I sure as hell am not going to sit here for weeks and listen to his."

Kurt hesitates, glances toward the pills in Trip's hand again.

"Take them now or I'll throw the damn things in the ocean." Trip snaps.

Kurt selects half of them, swallows them dry. They leave his tongue chalky and bitter.

Trip offers him a bottle of water, half empty. "Not much, just something to wash them down."

Kurt takes the bottle and sips. It's hot from the sun, a little salty. It's wonderful.

Trip turns his attention to Cooper. He drops the remaining pills into his hand, "Hold onto those for him, give him some water with them when he wakes up…you're gonna need to change those bandages at some point, too."

Cooper nods, "You said you've got more?"

"Jesus Christ, I should be christened the patron saint of island survivors," Trip sighs, "Yeah, I've got 'em. Come with me up the beach and you can take some."

Cooper glances to Kurt, "Watch him."

He nods, but he's distracted. He feels the lump of the pills still in his throat a strange wash of anxiety-laced relief. It takes him a moment to place the feeling. He looks over toward Trip, "We're not going to be here for weeks."

Trip glances back at him as he pushes himself to his feet. His knees both pop. "No?"

Kurt shakes his head, "They'd know our course. They'll know where we are."

Trip rolls one shoulder then the other, yawns. He looks toward the horizon, thoughtful, "Hmm, yes, but, rumor has it, we were off course."

Kurt feels too light, like something in him has suddenly gone hollow. He blames the meds. "…What?"

Trip shrugs, he doesn't seem particularly worried, "Just what I heard."

"They'll find us. Soon." Kurt glances over at Blaine, down at his own swollen ankle. "They have to."

"Pray to God but swim for shore, friend," Trip tosses the nearly empty bottle of water to him, "Might as well prepare as if we won't get rescued, because if we don't, well."

With that he turns. He walks away whistling, Cooper at his side.

Kurt turns the bottle of water over in his hands, stares at the little that still sits in the bottom. His throat is dry, the lump still there. It'd be easy to fix the problem—uncap the bottle, swallow down what's left inside. He rubs a thumb over the plastic where the label's been torn off. It's tacky with glue, hot from the sun.

Blaine shifts again, a muscle jumps in his jaw; his hands flex. He makes no sound, but his eyes open, squinted against the rapidly fading light. He blinks up at Kurt.

He seems to struggle for a moment to find his voice. When he does, it's raspy, "…Cooper?"

"Getting more bandages," Kurt glances toward the colored strips of fabric wrapped around Blaine's middle.

"Avery?"

"With Santana looking for something to sleep on."

Blaine lifts a hand a few centimeters, aborts the motion and lets it fall back to the sand, "You?"

"Fine. Right here." Kurt smiles a little. He swallows, looks again to Blaine's middle, "You…do you know what happened? How you got burned?"

Blaine blinks for a moment, foggy, "…plane…something—"

When he sucks in a gasp, Kurt's hand goes to his forehead, quick, natural. "Just…just rest, okay? Cooper's got medicine for you, he'll be back soon."

Blaine's eyes are closed tight, sweat beaded against his skin. He breathes through his nose, deep; controlled.

Kurt lifts the bottle of water from his lap, unscrews the lid. He's careful not to spill when he presses it to Blaine's mouth gently, "Here, drink this. Slowly."

Blaine's lips part. He swallows down what's left of the bottle and looks a little more at ease, "…thank you."

"No problem." Kurt touches a hand to his hair, "Rest, okay?"

Blaine doesn't answer; already drifting back toward whatever dreamland he'd escaped to before.

Kurt watches the rise and fall of his chest. There's something soothing in the even rhythm of it, almost music-like; wave-like.

He glances down at the water bottle in his lap, lifts it. He contemplates tossing it aside but then pauses. There is still a little water inside; beaded against the sides, moving slow and lazy on the bottom, catching against the plastic.

Kurt stares at it, looks toward the horizon—vast. Empty. The endless waves suddenly more frightening than soothing.

He screws the cap back on, places the bottle gently next to Avery's shell.

He'll save it. Just in case.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry for another long-ish wait. this chapter was incredibly easy to write and yet incredibly complicated to figure out. dont even ask. you can thank the beautiful becca (preciousmellow/andiheardeverything) for making me stop perseverating and just post the damn thing. she da best beta a girl could ever dream of and i love her. ALSO i love all of YOU darlings who read and comment and all that jazz, seriously, thank you. anyway, here be ch. 5, hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

Blaine always wakes up falling.

Or, at least, he dreams he is.

It had concerned his parents when he was small—a docile, smiley little toddler who jolted awake threaded with electricity and wild eyes to match his wild hair as he tried to get his bearings. They'd worried—taken him to pediatricians and neurologists and orthopedic specialists. They'd all promised Blaine was a perfectly healthy child.

He'd told them when he was three that he dreamed of falling.

_What do you fall from? _They'd asked.

_Everything._ He'd replied.

Chairs, ladders, trees, water towers, buildings, planes, foggy, indiscernible places; it didn't matter, if it was a place he could be sent tumbling from, he was sure he had at some point dreamt it. Blaine tripped, slipped, jumped in his dreams and woke up on the other side of unconsciousness, limbs tense, pulse throbbing rabbit quick in his wrists.

A Child Psychologist had been next on the list of specialists to determine How to Fix Blaine. He'd been shoved into an office again and again with a woman who always wore shoes that click, click, clicked on the floor when she came to the door to greet them. It hadn't been so bad; they'd discussed his parents, his brother, school, television, coloring, Power Rangers, and nightmares while Blaine sat in a beanbag chair and doodled on an Etch-A-Sketch. The results had been inconclusive—Blaine was sweet, Blaine had a healthy imagination, Blaine had friends and loved his family; Blaine woke from dreams of falling and that was that.

_Does it scare you? Waking up like that?_ His mother had asked once when he'd taken a particularly noisy tumble from bed when he was six.

He'd climbed back into bed, yawned, _No. It'd be scarier if it stopped, I think._

His parents had reluctantly given up the hunt for an answer and Blaine had learned to sleep in the middle of his bed.

There should be a strange sense of comfort in it then—a familiarity—when he jolts awake now, feels his feet make contact with cold sand, shoulder bumping against something softer. His heart pounds against his ribs, and for a moment, despite the normalcy of waking heavy and quick, he is frightened for reasons he's not entirely sure of.

There's a sharp intake of breath somewhere nearby, "Christ, Cooper said you'd do that, but, wow."

Blaine reaches up a hand to his face; scrubs it over his eyes. He's disoriented. Lost.

"Just… take it slow. You've been out for awhile."

Blaine lets his hand slide from his face; feels the grit of sand it leaves behind on his cheeks. He blinks his eyes open slowly; stares at the murky sunlight filtering through red fleece. "…Where…"

"Oh, are you, um…" The voice is somewhere to his right, nervous now, "…do you, like, remember your name and everything? Do you have a concussion?"

"Blaine; my name's Blaine," He blinks at the red for another moment before he turns to look at his companion. It comes back in a rush. "Kurt."

The tension in Kurt's face is replaced by a small smile, "Yeah. Jeez, don't scare me like that. I thought you were having some sort of amnesia episode and explaining all of this…"

"Would be a nightmare," Blaine scrubs at his eyes again, "…did I fall asleep?"

Kurt hesitates. He's leaned back against a pile of suitcases; his ankle propped on a pretty array of scarves. "…What's the last thing you remember?"

Falling. Falling is the last thing he remembers, so he pushes his thoughts back further to sand and blood and a girl with her stomach smeared red and open like a yawn, "This, this girl—she died."

"You passed out about five seconds after that according to Sam."

Blaine shifts; cringes, "I think…I'm pretty sure there's something wrong with my side."

"Right, _now_ you let someone know." Kurt snorts.

Blaine glances over at him; confused.

Kurt motions a hand at his middle, "You cooked your right side like a Thanksgiving turkey."

Blaine blinks; thinks back to a flash of ruined skin; tugging on the windbreaker over his shirt before he'd reached for Cooper… "I don't know how…I don't remember it happening."

Kurt quirks an eyebrow, smiles faintly, "Join the club."

Blaine pushes himself up a little farther, careful.

"Take it easy, okay?" Kurt reaches toward him, but his hand falls lamely to the sand at his side, "They're kind of rationing what we've got for pain meds."

"There was a guy…Skip or Todd or something—"

"Trip."

"Yeah, Trip," Blaine eases his weight back onto his hands behind him, "He thought he could get you meds. Did he ever find you?"

Kurt nods, "He did."

Blaine looks up again at the red above them. It's a blanket, he realizes, laced into some snarled branches not far overhead. "Good… how are the others doing?"

Kurt follows his gaze, "Some better than us, others worse. We're in the gently used department."

Blaine looks back at him, frowns, "Huh?"

Kurt motions around them, "You, me, Val, Jen, and Harry. We're the injured but functional ones."

Blaine leans forward a little, notes feet protruding a few yards from them under another blanket overhang. "What's wrong with them?"

"Val's foot is sliced open pretty bad, Jen's got heat exhaustion or something like that, and Harry's got a broken hand."

"Everyone else is okay?" Blaine glances out toward the beach. He can see a few of the others near the ocean.

"No," Kurt's voice is soft, "Definitely not."

Blaine glances back over at him; feels something stir in his stomach.

Kurt stares out at the ocean, "There's two more little set ups further down the beach. There's the really bad ones—Hannah, James, and Charlotte, I think—and then there's the ones they're just…just trying to keep comfortable."

Blaine swallows. His throat is dry. "…How many of them are there in that group?"

"Last I heard, five." Kurt finally looks at Blaine, his eyes tired; sad, "That was late last night, though."

"Last night?" Blaine tries to look at the sun outside their little overhang.

Kurt studies his profile, "You've been out for a long time."

"How long?"

"About a full day." Kurt looks up at the sun filtering through the blanket, "A little less. You kind of woke up a few times between but never for very long."

Blaine shakes his head, "I don't remember."

"Not much to remember, you usually just needed water or something. You asked about Cooper a few times."

Blaine nods slowly, a little comforted but not by much. There's something horribly disconcerting about losing a whole day to unconsciousness, especially here in this place, "Where _is_ Cooper?"

"On a hunt for paper and a pen to document his experience or something," Kurt smiles, eyes directed out toward the beach. "I gotta hand it to him, he loves his job."

Blaine groans, "Has anyone actually given him paper and a pen?"

"Not yet, he's been on the hunt for a while now, though." Kurt turns his gaze to Blaine, "Why?"

"He's creating a character." Blaine sighs. Irritated.

"A what?"

"A character," Blaine drags a hand over his face, "He's using our ridiculously insane, awful experience here to make up a poorly thought out, shallow mess of a character. If he tries to interview you or anyone else, I'll kick his ass."

"Interview?"

"He likes to borrow emotions." Blaine mumbles, "The idiot would walk right up to someone crying and ask what they're feeling and why then take notes on the body language."

There's a beat of silence between them. Blaine considers rousting himself enough to get to his feet and go search out Cooper before he does some sort of irreparable emotional damage on someone.

"He may not know how to be tactful in this sort of situation, but he definitely knows you," Kurt speaks up. He cants his head to the side, an almost-smile ghosting over his mouth, "Cooper said when you were awake for real you'd do that sort of…jolt or jump or something. He was right."

"Oh, um, yeah," Blaine reaches up a hand to rub at the back of his neck, Cooper momentarily forgotten. "…I do that."

Kurt nods, but he says nothing.

"I dream I'm falling," Blaine blurts. He's not sure why he tells him. Kurt didn't ask and he doesn't seem particularly perturbed by the news, but he's looking at Blaine again now, expression unreadable.

"So… you do the jumping thing people do, like when they have those dreams they're falling or tripping or whatever." Kurt says slowly, as though maybe he has it wrong.

"Yeah."

Kurt blinks, "Every night?"

Blaine shrugs, "Whenever I sleep—daytime nap or night time, I just…wake up falling."

Kurt's stare is intense and Blaine can feel himself blushing beneath it. "For how long?"

"Forever."

"You woke up earlier and you didn't do that." Kurt toys absently with a button coming loose from the bottom of his vest, "but you didn't stay up."

Blaine nods, "My parents used to say the same thing—if I sort of rolled over in my sleep or woke up for a minute during a nap or something—I wouldn't do it. We don't know why."

"Wow."

"Yeah," Blaine laughs, awkward. "Kinda weird."

"Really weird," Kurt glances at him, smiles, "Maybe that's why you were so good at keeping it together during the crash. Lots of practice with the falling part."

Blaine grins, sheepish, "Actually falling for real totally freaks me out."

Kurt quirks an eyebrow, "You've been waking up every morning for the past twenty something years because you feel like you're falling and the second it happens for real, you freak?"

"Not the falling part. Falling isn't really that scary if you think about it," Blaine traces a thumb in the sand, "It's landing that's the bad part."

Kurt's quiet for a moment, expression thoughtful, "I guess you're right."

Blaine smiles a little. There's a nagging hurt in his side that flares hot when he shrugs a shoulder.

It must show because Kurt's mouth turns down in a frown, "You okay?"

"…Yeah. Fine." Blaine shifts a little, feels the pain ease.

"Henry should be around with meds and all of that soon…at least I think soon, I have no idea how long it's been since I last saw him." Kurt leans forward, peers out around the blanket.

"It's not that bad now," Blaine pulls at the neck of his t-shirt to peer underneath. His middle is wrapped in strips of blue and green cotton.

"You can thank Jenny for color coordinating your bandages," Kurt is stretched forward, eyeing his foot, "it's about all she's good for."

"Who's Jenny?" Blaine glances behind himself. There's a separate pile of duffle bags and the bottom of an airplane seat piled stacked at an awkward looking angle. He wonders absently what their purpose is supposed to be.

"One of our alleged nurses," Kurt prods gingerly at his still swollen ankle. He cringes.

"They're students," Blaine shrugs, "They're doing the best they can, I guess."

Kurt glances up at him, "They're freshman."

"Like…freshman for a nursing program thing?"

"Like keg stands and dorm rooms freshman." Kurt sits back against the pile of duffle bags behind him, "…I guess they're technically sophomores since they just finished school."

Blaine opens his mouth, closes it. He doesn't know how to respond. There's a sense of loss in the information, for these poor girls, younger than him, who have had so much pinned on them. He leans back against the pile of suitcases behind him, "Who's the other one?"

"Shelly." Kurt stretches a hand out, points toward the beach, "She's straight out near the water. Red head. Ponytail."

Blaine sits up a little straighter, squints. He can make out the silhouette of a girl in a green shirt and denim shorts.

"She's going to fry out there," Kurt watches her, too, "You'd think it wouldn't take a wannabe nurse to figure that one out."

"You'd think." Blaine murmurs. He's studying the others, "Do you know any of the people with her?"

Kurt leans forward a little farther, shields his eyes with a hand, "The baldish guy is Harry—he's married to Val. He's real outdoorsy. They're here with their son, Max. Max is a couple years older than Avery."

"Where is Avery?" Blaine turns his gaze back to Kurt.

"Out with Santana, I think. They were helping sort through suitcases. She comes to check on you, like, every five seconds, so I'm sure you'll be seeing her soon enough."

Blaine nods, turns his attention back to the people. He points to a silhouette dresses in an orange sundress, "Who's that?"

"Either Laura, Lyla, or Leslie." Kurt yawns. "Triplets. Sister trip."

"…all three are alive?"

Kurt nods, "They're all so damn loud, you'd never notice if one went missing, though."

Blaine snorts, gaze drifting along the beach. He doesn't see anyone else, "…Where are the others?"

"Scattered around making fires and looking for supplies. Trip went traipsing off into the woods a while ago…is it woods or is it a jungle since it's tropical?"

"Jungle, I think…" Blaine mumbles. He's distracted, trying to add it up in his head. He, Sam, Santana, Avery, Kurt and Cooper makes six, three more nearby makes eight, the triplets eleven, the family fourteen…

Kurt's watching him, curious, "You okay?"

Blaine hesitates, eyes still scanning the beach, hoping to realize he's simply missed the small crowd of survivors, "…last you heard, how many of us are there?"

Kurt's face goes sad. He's fretting with the button again, and, for a moment, he says nothing, "…thirty five."

"Thirty five?" Blaine echoes. For a moment, he's dizzy. Sick with what that number implies. He blinks at the gray in the corners of his vision; fists his hands against the sand to ensure it stays there, solid.

"Hey, here," Kurt has a hand at his elbow, "I was supposed to give this to you right away, sorry."

There's a bottle of water, half full, placed on his outstretched legs. He stares at it vacantly, "…That plane held over two hundred people."

Kurt is quiet for a moment. He picks up the bottle from Blaine's lap, unscrews the lid, "Yeah."

Blaine stares down at the now open bottle being presented to him again. He accepts it, stares at it, "…we've been here a full day?"

Kurt nods, "No sign of anyone coming yet...Trip says he heard we might have been off course or something."

"How's he know that?" Blaine lifts the bottle to his mouth, takes a small sip. It's warm, leaves a fine grit of sand on his tongue. He takes another drink.

Kurt shrugs, "No one really knows anything. Just idle talk—the pilot was drunk, we got hijacked, we had engine problems—no one knows anything. We just know we're stuck."

"And that people are dying." The words are out before he even realizes he's going to say them. He gives Kurt a quick glance.

Kurt is looking at him, surprised maybe, but silent.

"I…sorry." Blaine offers the bottle back.

Kurt takes it, recaps it, "Why be sorry? It's true."

A silence rests between them. Heavy, a little uncomfortable.

Kurt is staring back out toward the water, "Santana and I…our friend was going to pick us up at the airport."

Blaine turns to watch Kurt's profile. He doesn't know what to say.

"…Our trip wasn't planned," Kurt's mouth twitches with an almost smile, "Rachel was furious when she found out. We saw her as we were getting in the cab to go."

Kurt's still toying with the loose button on his vest; twisting it in slow half circles between his thumb and pointer finger. Blaine watches the motion, "An impromptu trip to Bali?"

Kurt nods.

"Just like that?" Blaine blinks, "No calls into work?"

"I act." Kurt rubs his thumb over the front of the button, "And I just quit my hosting job."

"You're an actor?"

Kurt glances toward Blaine; offers a partial smile, "More stage than movies like your brother…and currently unemployed."

"I used to do that." Blaine turns his gaze to the sand

Kurt's fingers pause, he turns his gaze more fully to Blaine, "Be unemployed?"

"Act."

Kurt's eyebrows rise a little higher, he studies Blaine, curious, "You did?"

"I, yeah." Blaine smiles; shrugs, "Yeah, during school when I had the time."

"Huh." Kurt smiles, "I can see it."

Blaine yawns, "I don't do it anymore. Office job now."

"I don't think I could do that," The button breaks free from Kurt's vest. He frowns, studies it in his palm, "Work behind a desk, I mean."

"Sucks your soul out a bit." Blaine laughs quietly.

Kurt holds the button up for closer inspection between his fingers, squints at it, "Twenty four and already having your soul sucked out?"

"Twenty five," Blaine watches Kurt studying his button.

Kurt plucks at the string still attached to his vest, frowns at it, "And getting your soul sucked out."

"Someone's gotta pay the rent," Blaine shrugs.

"Mmm," Kurt pockets the button and sets to work pulling the remaining thread free, "And for the trips to Bali."

"Business trip."

Kurt glances up at him, playful smile pulling at his mouth, "The soul sucking business job sent you to Bali?"

"My dad brought us to Bali."

"Ah, family business…" Kurt turns his attention back to the loose thread, "Does Cooper do the commercials for said business?"

Blaine laughs. It pulls at his ribs, but the pain is dull; muted, "No, no commercials for us."

"So big brother is the actor and little brother is the big business man working for dad," Kurt looks back at Blaine, thread snapped free into his fingers, "Interesting."

"How so?"

"Just…" Kurt twists the little piece of thread around his pinkie, "Interesting."

Blaine is quiet for a beat, confused. He does not understand Kurt who is open and yet so closed off in his quiet smiles, "So you know all about me, but I don't know anything about you."

"Au contraire, Blaine," Kurt tucks the thread into his pocket alongside the button, "I know you work in a soul sucking office job under some sort of supervision from your father and you used to be an actor. You know that I am an unemployed former-host slash actor who took an impromptu trip to Bali. I'd say you know plenty."

"Maybe I want to know more."

Kurt gives him a curious look, and Blaine doesn't understand it. There's the quiet smirk he's learning to appreciate even in just this short day he's spent more of unconscious than awake, and yet there is some strange vulnerability flickering beneath the surface. He wants to ask about it, wants to know why Kurt was in Bali and why with Santana and who is Rachel and what restaurant did he work at and what shows has he done.

And yet.

And yet he knows that none of it is his business. And yet he reminds himself they have been through something traumatic, something terrible. He should not be flirting. He should not be wondering over little details of how one only sunburns their wrists and what Kurt plans to do with his broken button.

He clears his throat at the same time Kurt opens his mouth to speak.

They both freeze, a flickering look of confusion passing between them.

Kurt opens his mouth to try again. "I—"

"Well look at you, sport, alive and breathing!" Cooper sends up a spray of sand when he drops down at Blaine's side, legal pad and pen gripped loosely in one hand.

Blaine grimaces at the sight of the paper, "Please tell me you're leaving people alone."

"Huh?" Cooper leans forward, hooks a finger in the collar of Blaine's shirt. He peers in.

Blaine smacks his hand away, "Do you mind?"

Cooper looks at him, face intense, "I'm just ensuring your wounds are healing properly."

When Cooper leans forward again, Blaine shoves him away with a little more force, "Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you? Why do you look constipated?"

"Blaine, I'm here to help you." Cooper's frown deepens, eyes flickering one too many times across Blaine's face.

It is this move—the eyes—that brings the sudden realization. Blaine groans, "You're already doing it, aren't you?"

"I don't understand." Cooper's eyes are still flitting across his face.

Blaine lets out an exasperated sigh, "Okay, one? You don't have a movie for this person or character or whatever it is you're developing right now, so I don't see the point. Two? The eye thing is too much; you look like you're having some sort of isolated seizure or something."

Cooper's face relaxes, his frown replaced with a grin. He claps Blaine across the arm, "Good pointer, little brother. See? Told you. He's a champ."

The last words are directed toward Kurt with a wink and Blaine cannot help but be a little jealous when Kurt's cheeks flush a faint pink beneath the attention.

"Coop, just… just promise you'll let people be? Don't go telling them you're a doctor or survivalist or whatever for the sake of the character. You can't feed people false information in this sort of situation."

Cooper's expression lights up, "A survivalist?"

"Cooper, just—" Blaine drags a hand through his hair. There is no point in arguing, no point in even trying to talk a little sense into his brother, "Don't kill anyone and don't get yourself killed, alright?"

Cooper solemnly clasps a hand around the back of Blaine's neck, moves in too deep to his personal space, "I'll do my best to keep people safe, Blaine."

"Yeah, you do that…" Blaine glances at the bruise on Cooper's forehead—it looks worse today; mottled purple and red and brown. He considers mentioning it but decides it's best to let Cooper just continue on with his charade. "Don't harass anyone either, got it?"

Cooper rolls his eyes, mutters under his breath, "We seriously need to work on your line delivery."

He watches Cooper push himself to his feet; dust the sand from his legs, "Where are you going now?"

Cooper gazes out toward the sea, paper and pen still in hand, "I think I'll…I'll go somewhere to think some things through. I need to be alone for awhile."

"Uh huh."

Cooper stares out toward the horizon for another moment before looking back down at Blaine, face once again relaxed, "Not bad, huh?"

"Did you take any of what I just said seriously or were you acting the whole time?"

"Yeah, sure," Cooper lifts the legal pad up, clicks the pen on against his chest, "I like where you were going with the survivalist thing, B, very useful. I really think it could open this up to a whole other level of possibilities. Did you get the air of mystery from him? I really think he's got a pretty intense past."

"Like Steven?"

Blaine twists around hard enough to grimace at the pain it sends flaring up his side, "How do you know about Steven?"

Kurt smiles, remains mute.

"Not quite, Kurt, but I could definitely draw on that to get the feel right…" Cooper is scribbling madly as he speaks, "B, I'm serious about the delivery thing, you're getting rusty."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind."

Cooper winks, flicks a finger his direction, "Hey, don't worry about it. Rest up and we'll work on it."

Blaine watches him go, a little more exhausted than he was a few minutes ago.

"…Did he just do finger guns at you?"

"Yeah. He does that." Blaine glances at Kurt. "Please don't tell me you've watched the pool boy movie."

"No, but I plan to as soon as I get home." Kurt gives Blaine a smile, more open this time.

"It's two hours of your life you'll never get back."

"And this has been almost twenty four." Kurt motions a hand at the beach.

"Not to mention the PTSD therapy you're going to need." Blaine wipes the sweat from his forehead; it stings with the beginnings of a sunburn. "You'll clock plenty of couch time."

"I don't feel stressed or shell shocked or anything," Kurt studies his ankle, "Well, except for when I think about how I'm going to audition with this thing. Otherwise it's just kind of…surreal."

"Yeah," Blaine drops his hand to his lap, "I know what you mean."

Kurt glances at him, expression somber, "You saw a girl die."

The words don't hit him as hard as he thinks they should. He remembers—gaping, bloody openness of her abdomen; eyes going vacant—and yet he is detached, removed from that image that sits more like a clouded dream than something so recent in his reality. "We've all seen a lot here."

"It just…it doesn't feel real." Kurt tilts his head back, studies the blanket hanging over their heads, "I feel like I should feel more than I do for what's happened."

"You aren't _supposed_ to feel anything," Blaine turns to look at him; watches the pink-tinted light play across Kurt's face, "You feel what you feel…that's it."

Kurt stares at him. There's something heavy in the look, calculating, and Blaine almost wants to take the words back; to apologize for them.

He opens his mouth, ears already hot with embarrassment.

Kurt's mouth turns up in a smile, "I think I like you, Blaine."

Blaine finds himself, shockingly, almost dizzyingly quick, at ease. There is something in that smile…something Blaine could swear he recognizes if only he could remember where and what it is. It dances before him, though, out of reach. This is not upsetting either; it'll come to him later, he is sure of it. For now, he returns the smile, nudges Kurt with a shoulder that sends another almost-ache of familiarity through him.

Kurt smiles again, laughs under his breath.

They stare out toward the water in compatible silence.

Kurt speaks after a moment, voice soft, "…Weird, isn't it?"

"Really weird…good weird."

"Good?"

Blaine tears his eyes away from the water to find Kurt looking at him with a frown. His ears burn hot. They're definitely not talking about the same thing.

"Wait, what's weird?"

Kurt stares at Blaine for another moment before looking away, "If there was something in the plane to tell them where we are…why haven't they found us yet?"

Oh. That. Blaine groans internally, thanks God there was no one around to potentially pick up on his blunder, "Maybe it's just like a ballpark kind of locating thing…like there's so many hundreds of miles we might be in based on what they know."

"Hm, maybe," Kurt glances down toward his feet, "You know anything about how long it takes before bones start mending the wrong way?"

Blaine slips a little closer to Kurt, feels the heat off his skin against his own along the exposed lines of their arms, "It'll be fine. We don't even know if it's actually broken."

Kurt gives him a look.

Blaine shrugs, helpless, "It could just be a really nasty sprain."

"Hm," Kurt scratches at the side of his nose, "an optimist. How depressing."

Blaine laughs, "We feel what we feel, remember?"

Kurt snorts, looks back out toward the water, "If I tell you something, promise not to repeat it around Santana?"

"Yeah, sure."

"If it weren't for the ankle thing and the dead people…this wouldn't seem so bad." Kurt looks back at Blaine, "Is that a terrible thing to say?"

Blaine stares. He stares and he stares some more at the cute boy from the plane who he couldn't quite bring himself to say hello to. "No."

Kurt's face relaxes; he smiles again, "We feel what we feel."

"We feel what we feel." Blaine nods, leans back on his elbows and he feels, for the moment, at peace.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This chapter starts with a Kurt flashback and then moves to Day 5 on the island, just a heads up. Also some warnings: underaged drinking, bullying, sexual stuffs implied. Thank you so much to all you wonderful readers out there for your support, comments, and general wonderfulness. I'll try to get you ch. 7 sometime in the next week!**

* * *

He's seventeen and he has been crowned prom queen.

He didn't ask for this. Didn't go out of his way to provoke the people who have done this to him.

He went to prom with a girl—with Mercedes—there is nothing strange in this, nothing notable.

He thinks it was his tux that did him in. The jacket was subdued enough—tapered neatly, buttons bright. It was the Tartan plaid kilt, made on a quiet weekend at home with Lana Del Ray playing in the background that has raised eyebrows. He loved that kilt—loves it still. He stares at his lap on the car ride back. At bedazzled plastic point of a crown that shouldn't be his, perched pretty on that kilt.

"We don't have to go," Mercedes tells him, voice strained, "We'll go back to your place and watch a movie. Really."

He doesn't have to look up from his lap to know there are five sets of eyes on him—Mercedes beside him, Rachel and Jesse ahead of him, Puck and Santana at the front.

"Watch the road, Puckerman," He says and he wonders if he sounds as drawn out as he feels, "We're going. I want to go."

There are looks exchanged—again, he does not see them, but he feels them—before they can ask, he speaks again; looks up and around at each of them, "I want to go."

They don't push it again.

There is only one after party and even they the Glee club members are granted permission to attend. Kurt suspects this has more to do with numbers than anything else, but, all the same, it had been exciting when word had first spread.

A party—a real one; a big one—out beyond city limits in someone's uncle's cousins old barn…or something like that. Everyone was going—people from other schools, college students, the Lima graduates who hadn't made it much further than the local Sears or Lima Mall food court—it didn't matter who, the thrill was being a part of something so large.

_And right after our junior prom; it's the two biggest social events of our high school careers_. He had trilled only a week prior. He'd purchased an entirely separate outfit for this part; planned to change his hair and his clothes in the car, a Cinderella that only got more fabulous after the ball.

He doesn't change. The idea alone is too exhausting.

They pull into a sea of cars among the trees where they can already feel bass thrumming like a pulse beneath their skin.

He does not wait for one of them to ask again if he is sure about this, if he is okay, if he needs something. He lifts the crown from his lap, looks to Santana, "You want this?"

Santana's expression goes pinched; worried.

Kurt holds it out, tries to smile a little, "You wanted it a lot more than I did. You can piss off Quinn with it if you want."

Santana lets out a strained laugh, accepts the offered plastic tiara.

Puck pulls a flask from his pocket; unscrews it with a thumb, "Alright, kids, here's the deal. We get caught, it's every man for himself; just…run. Cool?"

They nod their agreement.

Puck glances back to Kurt, expression softening, "Dude, if you wanna get out of here at some point—"

"I want a drink." Kurt sticks out his hand again.

Puck blinks at him.

Rachel looks between them, worried, "Kurt, I don't think that's such a good idea, you're—"

Kurt opens and closes his hand, gives her a hard look, "I just got crowned prom queen. I think I deserve some libations after my coronation ceremony, don't you?"

She swallows, looks toward her feet.

The flask is handed over carefully, "It's whiskey, dude, just warning you."

Kurt takes a pull. It's hot and smoky; liquid fire burning its way over his tongue and down his throat. The warmth spreads slow through his chest, settles beneath his ribs. He takes another pull; wipes his mouth with the back of a sleeve, "Lets go."

The party is just as big as he had imagined it and for some reason this is surprising. Perhaps he is not used to things actually living up to his expectations.

Mercedes holds tight to his hand as they push their way through the crowds.

People look at him, murmur to one another. More than one gives him a bow or curtsy and a mocking '_your highness_' as he passes. He nods back at them with a sneer.

"Kurt, are you sure—"

"I want a drink."

She does not argue with him. A red, plastic cup appears in his hand.

They walk further into the hoards of people. Somehow, they stumble upon Finn and Quinn; Brittany and Artie are not far behind. They stand together, huddled close in the face of the sheer masses.

They look at him—watch him sip at his beer with sad, quiet eyes—it's worse than the mocking smiles of the others.

He bids his time. Drinks more beer, takes offered pulls from Puck's flask.

Slowly, his friends relax—alcohol in their blood and bass line vibrating beneath their feet makes them forget that they are on guard duty and Kurt is relieved. He watches them drift like boats cut free from their current rousting point—Jesse and Rachel up the ladder toward the hay loft. Brittany and Quinn drawn to the dance floor, boys in tow.

Puck and Santana remain with him for another long few minutes, eyes drifting restlessly.

Finally, Puck tucks his flask into Kurt's hand, "It's all you, man."

Kurt nods his thanks, watches as his final two moored little ships drift into the crowd.

He remains where he is for a moment, gazing out at the others. He takes a small pull from the flask before starting his own journey. People do not notice him so much now as he passes, though there are still the few that cannot resist a slurred pun or two.

He finds himself outside. Dew-soaked grass squishing beneath his shoes; stars bright overhead.

He makes his way past small crowds of people and the glow of their cigarettes; smoke reflected blue in the dark.

He sees the huddled silhouettes of people in twos off in the trees, romancing each other into the mud, and the grass and he wonders how many of those girls will have to explain grass stained pretty dresses to their mothers tomorrow.

In the dark, people do not know it is him so they do not mock. He is left alone; treated like any other anonymous silhouette in the dark, and yet there is no comfort in that.

There is a building up ahead—tall; round. _A silo_, his brain tells him hazily. He thinks it might be nice to go in there—to be in a place where he is alone for a few moments so that he might properly breathe.

He walks around its base, hand trailing against the metal in a blind hunt for the door. He is halfway around before his fingers are suddenly touching only air. He can make it out easily enough, a spot of something more black than blue in the night. He has to stoop low to fit himself through; scrape his back against the rusted metal to get all the way in.

Once he is inside he realizes he is not as alone as he thought he would be. The glow of a lonely cigarette greets him from the other side.

He considers quietly slipping right back through the door, but he freezes when he hears a voice.

"Hummel?"

He knows that voice. Thinks he should probably fear that voice. He doesn't speak.

The blue glow of a cellphone lights up their surroundings for a moment and there is a pull of dread in his stomach to see his suspicions confirmed.

He stands up straighter, though, keeps his expression composed, "Hello, David."

The light remains on as David studies him from the far wall. He's frowning, cigarette poised between two fingers at his side.

Kurt glances down at it, "Didn't know you smoked."

"I don't."

Kurt quirks an eyebrow.

Karofsky lifts it to his mouth; blows out a cloud of dark blue. He holds it out toward Kurt, "You smoke?"

Kurt approaches slowly; takes the offered cigarette. He inhales tentatively, carefully. It burns like the whiskey does. "No."

David snorts, takes back the cigarette. "What're you doing out here?"

"Taking a break from the teaming masses." Kurt lifts Puck's flask to his mouth. He prefers this burn to that of the cigarette.

Karofsky motions with his cigarette; orange tip glowing hot between them, "Don't you have, like, drunk, passed out guys to fuck in there?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing about the broken hearted prom queen candidates." Kurt returns coolly, "I'm sure they'd do just about anything for an ego boost tonight…speaking of girls with low self-esteem, where's your date, you came with Maisy, didn't you?"

"Getting an ego boost from someone else," David laughs hollowly.

There is something in that sound, something sad, that makes Kurt hold out the flask.

David stares at him for a moment before accepting it. He takes a pull; grimaces, "Whiskey?"

Kurt shrugs.

"I guess you need it to celebrate that you're finally an official princess," David takes another pull.

Kurt doesn't smile, "Am I really that transparent?"

David hands the flask back. Their fingers touch briefly and David is quick to jerk his hand away, "You wore a dress to prom. What did you fucking think would happen?"

Kurt looks up; the silo is open at the stop; there's a perfect circle of stars acting as a ceiling above them, "I'd dance. People would dance. Quinn would get queen since Finn was king. We'd come here, we'd have fun; we'd go home…that's what I thought."

David is quiet for a beat, "…people would've probably voted for you as queen even without the skirt."

"It's a kilt." Kurt lifts the flask to his mouth; finishes off what's left inside, "and maybe they would have."

"I'm surprised you didn't campaign," The tip of David's cigarette illuminates his face in a soft glow for a moment, he blows out a cloud of smoke; speaks around it, "…then again your whole existence is kind of a campaign for queen, isn't it?"

There's little venom behind the words. Kurt is grateful. He doesn't have the energy to fight right now, or maybe he's just too buzzed to care, "Then thanks for organizing the vote. Now that I've got the official title, maybe people will let me go about the rest of high school in peace."

David is silent.

Kurt turns. He wants to leave this place; he's tired of this. Tired of David Karofsky. "Well, I should get back to the adoring commoners. Enjoy your cigarette."

"Why'd you wear the fucking dress, huh?" David is suddenly closer, smell of smoke and whiskey settled on his rented tux; shirt unbuttoned at the top.

Kurt pauses. He studies the proximity, contemplates whether or not he should feel threatened, "It's a kilt."

David speaks through gritted teeth; gives him a small shove at the shoulder. It's rough, but it isn't hard enough to push Kurt back at all, "That's even fucking fruitier."

Kurt frowns; he still doesn't feel any real fear. David is not going to hurt him. Not right now anyway, "I made it myself. Does that make it worse, too?"

"For fuck's sake, Hummel," David moves to shove him again. His hand makes contact; curls into a handful of his jacket, "do you want people to fucking kick your ass?"

Kurt stares down at David's hand fisted in his shirt, "Can't give away all of my secrets, Dave."

"Fucking faggot," David bites, he clenches his free hand at his side.

Kurt watches the twitch of David's shoulder; looks back to meet his eyes, "You gonna hit me, Karofsky?"

"You'd deserve it, wouldn't you?"

"For wearing a kilt to the prom?"

"For your entire fucking existence, fairy boy."

"Very original, David," Kurt sighs.

"You run around like you fucking own that school," David shifts his hand against Kurt's jacket; tightens his grip on it again, "In your stupid girl sweaters and your fucking weird shoes, and I swear to fucking god you paint on your pants. Then someone shoves you around, and you have the nerve to look shocked."

"Do I still look shocked, David? I don't feel shocked," Kurt laughs humorlessly, "I won't lie, though, I do still wonder why."

"Did you not just hear me—"

"If I stopped dressing the way I do tomorrow, it wouldn't stop you," Kurt meets David's eyes, "Why do you do it? None of the others push me around as much as you do."

"Want me arrange it so they do?"

"Wouldn't want you getting jealous."

There's a flash of terror and then rage on David's face, "Don't worry, Hummel. I'm sure I'll manage."

"Well, then I guess I have something new to look forward to on Monday when we get back to school," Kurt looks up toward the open roof again, "…What if I didn't, though?"

"Didn't what?"

Kurt looks back at David, "Go back."

David's expression turns annoyed, "You have to go to school."

"I could go somewhere else."

David snorts, "Where? Where you gonna go that someone else isn't gonna wanna knock you around for the shit you pull?"

"I don't know," There's something lonely in that realization; something horrifyingly bleak. "…Then maybe I won't go to school. I'll just…leave."

"Run away." David fills.

"Yeah."

"You'd come back with your tail tucked in under a week."

"Nothing out there can be much worse than it is here." Kurt looks down at David's hands still fisted in his suit, "Congratulations, David. You finally might get what you want."

"What I want?"

"Me. Gone."

"Yeah, maybe…"

They don't move.

David opens his mouth; closes it, "…I voted for Quinn."

Kurt stares at him in silence.

David's expression is flat, his voice angry, "I said I didn't vote for you."

Kurt doesn't know how to respond. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, "I heard you the first time."

"I thought you were supposed to be smart or something." David looks near tears and Kurt doesn't understand.

"Dave, I don't get—"

Kurt is horrified for a split second that he has unconsciously made the decision to suddenly kiss David Karofsky. That is the only reasonable explanation, right? The only way to explain the taste of smoke and sweat? The only way to explain a hand still fisted in his shirt and a mouth on his?

He pushes David away because no. No, he did not do this. And if he didn't do this…he doesn't want to consider that. Not here. Not right now.

David lets go of him, watches him take one step back then two. He glares; shouts, "You get it now? Huh?"

"I…" Kurt keeps backing away. He needs to go. He needs to run.

David scrubs a hand over one of his eyes, "You gonna run?"

"I don't know." Kurt takes another step back; swears he can feel the burn of whiskey in his veins, "…do you really think I'd stay here and kiss you? After everything?"

David laughs but there's no mirth in it, "You can do better?"

Kurt pauses, "Than someone who beats me up?"

David takes a step forward, he's glowering, but his voice is quiet, "Name one other guy you know. Not your creepy crushes on straight guys. I mean one guy who'd actually give you the time of day?"

"I…" Kurt's dizzy. He doesn't like the alcohol in his system anymore.

"One guy, Hum—" David pauses, "One guy, Kurt. Tell me one person you know."

Kurt stares at him. He takes a step closer.

He leaves before David does. When his friends see his rumpled suit and dirtied knees, they demand names. Puck promises heads on platters.

He promises them he's fine. No one did anything to him; the dirtied knees are his own fault.

He goes to school on Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday.

He doesn't finish the week.

* * *

Avery is wearing a woven crown of wild flowers. She holds hands with one of the other little girls—Kurt thinks her name is Samantha, but he's not sure—they spin in circles together; laugh when Avery's crown falls down over her eyes.

She sees Kurt watching her; she curtsies.

He offers a smile he's not sure she can see.

"You're getting flabby just sitting there."

Kurt looks up at Santana, "At least I'm getting a tan."

"We could hack off your foot. That might get you moving."

Kurt glances down at his leg. They've rigged up a rough splint for him—torn t-shirts and broken tree branches that rub wrong against his skin. "Maybe next week."

Santana casts a bored look around the beach, "Where's the boy scout?"

"Scavenging the wreck or something with Sam." Kurt motions a hand down the beach.

Blaine had dragged himself to his feet on day three; hobbled around their makeshift tent until he felt sturdy enough to venture further. He'd seemed guilty about it—leaving Kurt beneath the shade of the red blanket while he explored the beach. He always returned with something—a water bloated _Us Weekly_, a mostly empty bottle of lotion, scavenged fruit; a little fresh water from the collected tarp-full when it had rained on night 2, sticks and fabric for the splint.

Kurt likes him—likes Blaine's salt water curls and sunburned nose and easy laugh. Likes how he and his brother horseplay like children and sing Simon and Garfunkel and REO Speedwagon with one another when they help boil water and put together shelters. Cooper had broken character long enough yesterday to tell him it's been a long time since Blaine would sing with him. Kurt has a hard time believing it.

Santana drops down into the sand behind him. She pulls the sunglasses off the bridge of his nose and puts them on, "You can't move off your ass, how did _you_ end up with Oakley sunglasses?"

"Blaine found them."

Santana leans back on her elbows, "Of course he did, and of course he handed them off to _you_."

"Be nice to him and maybe he'll get you something nice, too." Kurt shrugs. He turns his attention back to the girls.

Santana follows his gaze, "…you sitting here dreaming up makeshift hair products?"

"Something like that."

Santana looks back at him through tinted lenses, "You know, if you feel like running, that ankle is gonna fuck you over."

"Where would I run to that's any further away than we are right now?" Kurt glances at her, manages a small smile, "And you're right here back with me."

She snorts, "If there was a chance to get on a raft or something, I'd leave your gimpy ass behind."

"You would not," Kurt turns his attention farther down the beach where Cooper is hunched over his legal pad, "I wouldn't have been in Bali if it weren't for you."

"That was your idea, don't go blaming me."

Kurt snags the sunglasses off her face and perches them back on his, "No comment."

Santana rolls her eyes, motions at the glasses, "So…Blaine."

"What about Blaine?"

"You tell me."

Kurt lifts the sunglasses; pushes them back into his hair so he can meet her eyes, "I know you hit your head when we crashed, but I think you do know enough to understand we've been stranded on an island for five days where people are dead, right?"

"I also know that that he's tiny but he's dreamy and you two giggle together like fifteen year-old girls at a slumber party. Just saying."

"And I'm just saying he's a nice guy. End of story."

"A nice guy who is basically in love with you."

"He is not." Kurt drops the sunglasses back down onto his nose; tips his head up toward the sun, "We're friends…who happened to go through a bizarrely tragic experience together."

"Oh, so he doesn't shower you with gifts and attention and help make fires close by to wherever your lazy ass is parked?"

Kurt gives her a pointed look, "I can't exactly move."

"You're not answering the question. Avoiding it is the same thing as saying I'm right."

"You're wrong."

"Saying I'm wrong still makes me right." Santana taps a finger against her temple, "I always know, Hummel. You of all people should be aware of that."

"And _I_ always know," Kurt bops her nose with the tip of his finger, "_You_ of all people should know that."

"Oh my God, like it was even hard to figure out I liked—"

"I've got the best present for you ever."

Kurt glances up. He ignores Santana's gaze on him in favor of smiling at Blaine, "Better than the sunglasses?"

"Better." Blaine has his gift wrapped in one of the airline blankets tucked behind his back and a wheeled suitcase parked at his feet. He grins.

"A life raft?"

Blaine shakes his head, "Still hunting for that. Guess again."

"A radio."

Blaine shakes his head.

"Conditioner? Hairspray?"

"You want those?" Blaine looks thoughtful. "…I'll keep an eye out, but no."

Kurt ignores Santana's kick to his good ankle. "I…have no idea. What is it?"

Blaine pulls his find from behind his back; lets the blanket puddle in the sand below, "Ta-dah!"

Kurt laughs, "You didn't."

"I did." Blaine studies the crutches in his hands with a pleased smile before turning his grin back toward Kurt, "How about a little walk?"

Kurt studies the crutches, suddenly a little wary, "Right now?"

"No time like the present," Blaine shrugs; he drops the crutches to the sand and crouches beside Kurt, "Here, come on."

Reluctantly, Kurt slips an arm around Blaine's shoulders and allows himself to be hoisted upright. He balances awkwardly on one foot; balances against Blaine's smaller frame.

Blaine smiles down at Santana, "Mind handing us the crutches?"

She gives Kurt a look before lifting them over her lap toward them.

Kurt takes one in his free hand, tucks it under his arm. Blaine is right—it's a little tall, but it's not a terrible fit.

Blaine shifts the other crutch under Kurt's left arm, slowly slips out from under his grip, "You know how to use crutches?"

Kurt nods but doesn't move.

"Sam was messing around with them down by the wreck," Blaine steps back a few paces, looks over Kurt thoughtfully, "they're a little sketchy on the sand, so just take it slow."

"Can we not make this into a show?" Kurt grumbles.

"A show?"

He motions at the others pausing in their work to watch.

"Think of them as cheerleaders," Blaine waves a hand dismissively, "Come on. Show 'em what you got."

Kurt attempts a step as carefully as he can. He stumbles anyway and lets out an undignified squawk of surprise.

Blaine steps in closer, hands out as though Kurt might tip over at any moment, "Hey, no big deal. You just gotta get used to them."

Kurt glances at the others still watching, "I think I'm already kind of done trying to get used to them."

"Aw, come on," Blaine gives his shoulder a squeeze, "I'll stick right next to you, alright? I'll be like your spotter."

"Wan-ky." Santana singsongs from the sand.

Blaine snorts, but otherwise ignores her, "Come on."

Kurt steadies himself and attempts another step…then another…and another…

"That's it. Good—you're doing great, see?" Blaine is close behind him, sounding nearly giddy with delight.

"I've taken like four steps." Kurt shifts the crutches forward; watches the sand sift around them.

People applaud; whistle and call out their encouragement.

"That's four more than you thought you could."

Kurt glances up to smile out at them, glances toward his side where Blaine is still following nearby, "This might sound crazy, but previous to the broken ankle I'd had twenty four years of walking experience."

"Must be why you make it look so easy."

"I'm sure that's—" He doesn't realize he's misplaced a crutch in the sand until he comes down on his ankle just hard enough to see a burst of white in front of his eyes. He's vaguely aware of a sympathetic cry from the others watching.

"Okay, okay; maybe enough practicing for one day." Blaine is pulling the crutches away; lowering Kurt back toward the sand. "You alright?"

Kurt sucks in a breath through his nose; lets it out slow through his mouth. He nods. "So much for walking."

"You're already getting better." Blaine offers a nearly empty bottle of water, "We'll try it down closer to the water next time—it'll be easier on that sand."

Kurt glances out at the others. They've already gone back to their work, "…I thought you were spotting me."

"You were doing good, so I backed off a few steps," Blaine grimaces, "Sorry…hey, I've got something else for you."

Blaine gets up and moves across the small space Kurt's covered on his crutches. He returns with the suitcase. Kurt raises an eyebrow, "I'd hope it was mine, but mine wasn't that color."

"What color was it?" Blaine lays the bag flat and sets to work unzipping it.

"Red…is it yours?"

"I don't think so," Blaine pushes open the top flap, turns his gaze to Kurt, "Thought you might like to dig through it with me. See what we find."

Kurt smiles a little, reaches forward to pull out a bikini top, "I'm not sure we're going to find any clothes for us in here."

"But you did find something for me!" Santana snags the swimsuit from his hand as she passes, "Have fun, kids. Don't forget to use a condom."

Blaine glances up as she passes but offers no comment. He pulls a plastic bag from the suitcase and shakes it, "Didn't you just say you wanted hair products?"

Kurt snatches the bag from him and sorts through its content. He grins when he discovers a nearly-full bottle of conditioner. He holds it out toward Blaine, "How do you feel about Bed Head Dumb Blonde products?"

"I feel like neither one of us is blonde," Blaine smiles; ruffles a hand through Kurt's hair, "Yours might be, though, if we stay here much longer."

Kurt feels the creep of a blush on his cheeks that he's quick to force down. "Do you think if I use enough it'll cancel out the fact that I'll be rinsing it with salt water?"

"Maybe," Blaine is busily unfolding and refolding shirts. He sets them in neat piles on his right. He pulls a pack of gum from between two maxi skirts. He pulls a stick out and offers it to Kurt, "Lunch?"

Kurt laughs; takes the offered gum, "Hmm, a gourmet lunch. Lucky us."

Blaine pops one into his mouth before continuing on with his unfolding and refolding, "At least the location is good. It's better than where I eat at home."

Kurt glances over at him, curious, "Where do you usually eat?"

"I eat in my office."

"Like a break room or…?"

"No, like, in my office-office—I work while I eat."

"That's just depressing."

Blaine laughs, leans back on his hands, "Why is that depressing?"

"You have one hour a day to go be wherever you want in a city that has ridiculously good food that, at your pay grade, you can actually afford." Kurt wrinkles his nose, "And you spend that hour in your office. What do you eat?"

Blaine's still laughing, "Are you going to make fun of me for it?"

"Probably."

"Then why would I tell you?"

"Tell me."

Blaine grins, "Fine. A protein bar."

"A protein bar?"

"Yes."

"Everyday?"

"Basically, yeah."

Kurt stares at him, mute for a moment, "You're serious."

Blaine shrugs, laughs again. "Fine, what do you do for your lunch break?"

"I'm an actor. I don't live your nine to five, Wall Street Joe." Kurt sticks his nose in the air, but a smile is tugging at his mouth.

"Who the hell is Wall Street Joe?"

"You are."

"It's not a reference to anything?"

"No."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're the one who eats a protein bar in his office alone everyday."

"Jeez, you make me sound pathetic."

Kurt looks him over, tilts his head, "Do you have any friends?"

"Of course I have friends."

"At work?"

"I guess."

"Why don't you eat with them?"

"I'm busy?"

"No one can come sit with you and eat their Au Bon Pain salad or whatever the hell other office people eat while you eat your protein bar?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They're eating at their desks."

"You _all _eat at your desks?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have a staff room?"

"I think so."

"Does anyone use it?"

"Sure."

"When?"

"To get coffee."

"So do you at least stand around the coffee pot and talk?"

"No, we take it back to our desks."

Kurt stares at him in silence, then suddenly he's doubled over with laughter.

"It's not that funny." Blaine laughs quietly.

"Oh—my—God—" Kurt can barely catch his breath, "—you have—no idea—how funny—"

Blaine grins down at the sand; waits for Kurt to compose himself.

After another minute Kurt's laughter finally peters into something more controlled. He wipes at his eyes, "I'll make you a deal."

"If it's got something to do with you being done making fun of me, I'm all ears."

"If we ever get off this damn island, I'll come eat lunch with you."

"Yeah?" Blaine smiles, "A deal implies I've got something to uphold in this thing, so what's the catch?"

"Of course," Kurt nods solemnly, "No protein bars."

Blaine offers his hand, "Deal."

Kurt's hand slips into his. The contact easy, warm; familiar in all its strangeness.

They shake and Kurt finds himself having a difficult time letting go.

Blaine allows the lingering touch and then he's pulling away, looking out toward the shore, "…can I ask a question we're not supposed to ask?"

Kurt feels something in his chest cavity drop a little; adrenaline tingle in his toes, "Um…which question?"

Blaine's eyes flit toward him, the corners of his mouth dip in a frown, "Is there more than one?"

Kurt looks out toward the sea, too; shakes those petty, initial thoughts from his head that he doesn't want to be having anyway, "I can think of a few."

Blaine's quiet for a beat, then, "…is anyone coming for us?"

Kurt hesitates, considers. "They're trying to. Somewhere."

He feels Blaine's gaze on his face, quiet crackle of electricity on his skin, "Will they find us?"

"I don't know." Kurt turns to look at him, meets his eyes. This is unexpected—brave, focused, steady Blaine—suddenly doesn't seem quite so steady. The Blaine Kurt knows (for less than a week now, he reminds himself), does not look sad like this.

Blaine does not turn back to the sea as Kurt expects him to. His eyes stay locked, intent. "Would it really be so bad?"

"To not be found?"

Blaine nods.

Kurt tears his gaze away and looks back to the blue beyond them. "Not at first. Trip can hunt now; some of the others can fish…but what about the people who are dying? What about monsoons or whatever storm fronts come through here?"

Blaine shifts; cringes. Kurt wonders if his side still hurts him, "There are hurricanes no matter where you live."

"I guess you're right." Kurt looks back at him and this time it's Blaine's gaze still on him. "…a little rain doesn't bother me."

Blaine's mouth twitches into something that might be a smile.

The electricity travels down the angle of Kurt's neck to his arm, sits tingling like lightning in his fingertips so suddenly close to Blaine's in the sand. He allows them to touch, just barely; feels the crackle between them.

He doesn't know how his fingers are suddenly overlapping Blaine's—if it's Blaine's doing or his own—but he does nothing to change it; sees no reason to question it. And what would happen if he were to lean in a little closer…

"Did you find me anything good?"

Kurt startles at the sound of Avery's voice. He looks up at her, manages a smile, "Come back in five to eight years and maybe some of these clothes will fit you."

Blaine points at the plastic bag in Kurt's lap, "There's some ponytail holders in there; you want those?"

She rests her hands on her knees; peers into the bag, "…I want the pink one. And the purple one for Sami."

Kurt digs out a handful of ponytail holders from the bottom of the bag, "Here, take all of them."

She smiles; takes the offered hair binders and tucks most of them over her hand and a few around Samantha's. She pauses for a moment before pulling her crown of flowers from her head and placing it on Kurt's, "There, now it's an even trade."

Kurt touches a hand to the thing, swallows, "…thanks."

Avery turns a hopeful smile toward Blaine, "Could I go look for stuff in the wreck?"

"No way," Blaine frowns, "Everything's unsteady. You could get hurt."

"You already got hurt, and you still go." Avery crosses her arms over her middle, frowns.

"Maybe I already used up my bad luck then so I have less to worry about," Blaine smiles a little, "Seriously, keep away from it. If you want something, let me know, and I'll keep an eye out for it, alright?"

She sighs, "Fine."

"Avery," Blaine gives her a hard look, "Promise me."

"Fine, jeez, I promise." She lets out an exasperated sigh before turning her attention to the little girl at her side, "Come on, Sami, lets see if one of the girls will braid our hair."

Kurt watches them go, feels oddly removed from the sight.

"…you think it's harder for little girls to not have their moms than it is for boys?"

"My mom is dead, and my dad and I have always done alright," Kurt pulls the crown of flowers from his head; studies it, "I was young when it happened, and he got remarried when I was in high school…there are certain times it would have been better to have her around, though. My dad did his best. He just didn't know how to handle everything."

"I'm sorry. About your mom, I mean," Blaine is quiet for a moment, "…Mine, too."

Kurt looks up at him.

Blaine holds his gaze for a moment before looking back down into the suitcase. He pulls out another shirt. "I was, um, I was seventeen. I...we got in a car accident."

"You were there." Kurt watches him.

Blaine folds the sleeves of a t-shirt in carefully on his lap; rubs at the wrinkles, "I was driving."

"Wow, that's…" Kurt chews at his lip.

"Yeah," Blaine sets the shirt aside, pulls out another one. He glances at Kurt. Forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "It was a long time ago."

Kurt stares down at the crown of flowers in his lap, "When I was seventeen, I got crowned Prom Queen."

Blaine looks up from his folding, "…Oh."

Kurt manages a feeble smile, "I wasn't trying to win Prom Queen."

Blaine's expression turns sad, "Oh, that's…"

"I thought the worse moment of it would have just been that initial announcement, you know? Hearing them say my name and the spotlight and the laughing…but everything that came after…that was the hard part." Kurt swallows; considers telling Blaine more—about dirty knees and that fateful week of school that came after. He doesn't want to talk about that, though. Not now. Instead, he puts the crown inside the suitcase atop a gauzy pink dress, "It was a long time ago, but certain things… Certain things have a way of never getting old, don't they?"

"Yeah…" Blaine stares at the flowers inside the suitcase, "Definitely."

Kurt leans back in the sand on his hands and finds his fingers brushing Blaine's once again. This time it's Blaine who shifts his hand over Kurt's.

They sit in silence with their memories that refuse to age.


End file.
